


Stargate Oblivion

by Arya_Silvertongue



Category: Stargate Atlantis, Stargate SG-1
Genre: Declassification (Stargate), Earth & Intergalactic Politics, F/M, Hard Sci-fi, Kid Fic, M/M, Mutual Pining, Post-Season/Series 05 Finale, Post-Time Skip, Slow Burn, Work In Progress, basically a love story over twenty years in the making
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-10
Updated: 2020-10-06
Packaged: 2021-03-02 00:07:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 27,233
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23575885
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Arya_Silvertongue/pseuds/Arya_Silvertongue
Summary: Fifteen years after John Sheppard left Atlantis for good, the Stargate Program is finally ready to go public.In the ensuing chaos, sixteen-year-old Paula Jane McKay is thrown in the middle of sinister plots, complicated loyalties, and old secrets that will force her to choose between her beloved city and the planet she has spent her whole life yearning for.
Relationships: Atlantis & Original Female Character, John Sheppard & Original Female Character, Rodney McKay & Original Female Character, Rodney McKay/John Sheppard
Comments: 13
Kudos: 31





	1. Chapter 1

01.1

John could feel the pressure on his bad knee as he stepped off the open hatch, the impact of his boots against the tarmac sending vibrations that reached even his teeth. After ten hours in a transport flight next to crates that smelled like mothballs and gunpowder, the sudden assault of sunlight and fresh air was more invasive than comforting.

Landings with other people behind the cockpit always made him twitchy.

“Sir.”

Adjusting the strap of his duffel bag, John looked up in time to see a textbook salute delivered by a Second Lieutenant he was pretty sure he’d never met before he left nine weeks ago.

“Hey.” John managed a quick nod before his pack slipped off his shoulder. “ _Shit._ ” He lost his grip on the buckle he’d been wrestling with for the past minute, and the whole thing dropped like a sack of bricks between him and his welcoming committee. John sighed. At least the bag fell with the right side up.

It ought to be embarrassing, but John’s entire body was sore, and he just couldn’t bring himself to give a damn.

“Sorry ‘bout that,” he mock-whispered, giving the young officer what he hoped was a sheepish smile. The kid didn’t even blink, just tensed up even further, so much that John felt like he had to worry about premature rigor mortis.

 _Kingston_ , spelled the nameplate on the officer’s uniform.

“My orders are to make sure you get real coffee and a decent breakfast before going to the base,” Lieutenant Kingston said, right hand still locked in a stiff salute. “Sir.”

The words came out in that rushed way when you don’t want to say something, but you really have to otherwise you’d get in trouble if you don’t. Considering who plucked him out of Germany a week ahead of schedule, John would bet good money that the statement had been verbatim.

Huh. There’s a story there, he could tell.

Under a brief assessing gaze, Kingston finally blinked, the air of customary indifference he’d adopted when he first approached John slowly flickering. John wondered what they must’ve told the kid about him; he looked like he was preparing to start SERE training in a tutu or told to do party tricks in front of the Join Chiefs.

John shook his head. He's clearly losing his touch.

The program seemed to recruit younger and younger people, and he was going to develop a complex if he thought about it for too long.

Instead of examining why the look of dogged defiance caught John’s eye, he decided to put the Lieutenant out of his misery and return the salute. Quick as a snake, Kingston moved, and before John could insist that he was _not_ that kind of superior officer, the kid already had his duffel bag on his own shoulder, the strap untangled and the buckle firmly attached.

It wasn’t SOP; John had a faint suspicion that it was done out of spite.

“Huh.”

Biting back his protests, he followed Kingston to one of the nondescript, black SUVs the SGC loved to use for their many clandestine operations.

“You mentioned breakfast. Any idea where I can get pancakes at,” He slid into the passenger seat as gracelessly as he did everything for the last half hour, squinting at his watch as he settled down, “11 o’clock in the morning?”

He saw the Lieutenant giving him an odd look through the rear-view mirror. When Kingston realized he’d been caught, he quickly turned his attention back on the road and cleared his throat.

“I’m afraid I can’t help you, sir,” Kingston replied, voice a little pitchy. “I haven’t been here long.”

John wondered if ‘here’ meant the program or Colorado. Instead of asking, he contented himself with watching Castle Rock zip by. “Oh yeah? How long?”

There was a short pause, and when John turned to look, he noticed that the pinched expression became more pronounced.

“Three weeks,” said Kingston, choking on the words. “Sir.”

John stilled. He might just be right about there being a story, after all. Recruits that new don’t get transport duty, especially not alone. John might not exactly be brass in any conventional sense, but his chaperones tended to be program veterans, and they often came in pairs. This was deliberate, and no doubt another one of the old man’s twisted games.

He straightened in his seat and decided to take the bait. “Pissed off anybody important?”

He’d been expecting a deer-in-the-headlights look, the same ones on the faces of probies when they realized that they’re in way over their heads. Instead, John saw a scowl that Kingston quickly controlled. 

“Not exactly, sir.”

 _Definitely_ a story. “Must’ve been something, to get you saddled with me.”

John watched the kid’s side profile. The Lieutenant didn’t look like anyone John had met before. At least, not anyone significant enough for him to remember off the top of his head. The name Kingston didn’t ring a bell, either. Nothing in the way the kid moved — a hard swallow and a tighter grip on the steering wheel — told John anything about why he seemed to be the next pawn in a chess game that’s been going on for years now.

“Orders are orders, sir.”

The tone of his voice brooked no argument, and John decided to respect that. He wondered what the kid must be thinking, though. Barely a month after learning that aliens were real, and he’s stuck babysitting the club’s pariah.

Sighing, John leaned back and tried not to get a headache.

They drove for almost an hour before reaching a fast-food joint that didn’t make John’s stomach lurch. There was a brief struggle when Lieutenant Kingston insisted that they should get out of the car so John could eat on a proper table. Even without thinking about how odd a pair they’d make — a post-adolescent flyboy in his shiny dress uniform and another, slightly-older flyboy with soot all over his BDUs — it was still not a good idea. John was cranky, trigger-happy, and jet-lagged. He was not fit for civilian company.

“Thanks,” he drawled as he shot Kingston what he’s sure was a cheeky grin. There were no pancakes, so he settled for three cheeseburgers. At the last minute, he added a complicated order of iced coffee, just to mess with the kid a bit. Kingston flinched a little but otherwise made no comment. He forgot himself for a moment, though, and waved an impatient hand when John offered to share.

“I’m good, sir,” he amended, when John raised an eyebrow.

“Seriously.” John tried talking around a mouthful of burger. He succeeded, for the most part. “What did you do? Pranked your Team Leader? Blew up the gate?” He’d seen a couple hundred retorts rise and die in the kid’s eyes. John could smell willful disobedience a mile away; he’d practically had it patented. Second Lieutenant E. Kingston had willful disobedience written all over him, and the fact that he had yet to so much as snort told John that the young officer was in a short leash.

“Just following my orders, sir.”

“Look—”

“I almost forgot.” Kingston stopped at a red light, and grabbed the brown parcel sitting on the front seat. “They told me to give you this, sir. It arrived when you were away.”

It wasn’t smooth, not by a long shot. Shrugging good-naturedly, John placed his coffee in the cup holder and took the package. One cursory look inside showed him five thick folders, all SGC-standard. They must be the dossiers he’d requested before he left for Ramstein. Fat lot of good they’d do him, now that he’s back.

Before John could close the envelope, his eye caught something shiny inside. Taking it out, he quickly realized what it was.

_~ Dinner with the Sheppards ~_

_Appetizer – Avocado crostini_

_Main Course – Spaghetti tacos_

_Dessert – Froyo from Lacey’s_

_~ You’re invited! ~_

The card was made out of bright, pink paper, and bedazzled with just about every color of rhinestone in existence. When John gave it a tentative shake, bits of glitter fell on his lap. It looked so shiny and ridiculous that even Lieutenant Kingston had a horrified look on his face.

Instead of defending himself, John turned the card and looked at the date. Damn. The dinner was five days ago. He sighed and tucked the card back inside the envelope. He hated disappointing the kids.

“Eyes on the road, Lieutenant,” he told Kingston.

John had to give the kid a little credit; the car didn’t even swerve.

They hit traffic half an hour outside the Mountain. After five minutes of ignoring Kingston’s attempts at covertly looking at him, John gave up.

“Something you wanna say?”

Some of John's exhaustion must’ve slipped because the younger officer straightened, his knuckles on the steering wheel turning white. Kingston opened and closed his mouth twice, like the very idea of talking caused him great pain.

“Sir, I— I just.”

John tried not to wince. He still had no idea what the deal was, sending fresh meat unsupervised as punishment for something that was probably just a rookie’s mistake. There was always KP duty. Whatever the case, John had no energy to meddle. It was no longer his business.

“I was just pulling your leg, kid.” He waved a dismissing hand, making a point of turning his head back to the window. “Cut yourself some slack.”

It seemed to have been the right thing to say because out of the corner of John’s eye, he saw that Kingston visibly relaxed. Still, the kid continued to stare, this time a little more openly.

John rolled his eyes and shifted in his seat, giving the kid his full attention. A few seconds of silence passed, time he spent worrying that the kid might just reveal himself to be a long-lost lovechild from his Academy days. It was highly unlikely, but John was familiar with the concept, and he's honestly just too tired to think straight at this point.

“Well?”

Kingston swallowed. “They . . . umm— they told me, they said you’d do that. Sir.” He shrugged when John raised an eyebrow, going for casual and missing by a mile. “Ask me, I mean.”

“Ask you what?”

There was a short pause when the Lieutenant hesitated. “They said you’d ask why I was sent to pick you up.”

John didn’t have to ask who ‘they’ were. He wondered again just what the hell the crazy bastard was up to this time.

“Oh yeah?”

Kingston nodded.

John paused for a beat, then decided to follow his own advice to cut the kid some slack. “Well I ain’t gonna ask you again if you don’t feel like sharing, so don’t worry about it.”

Surprisingly, that seemed to be the end of the conversation. For the rest of the ride, John resumed with checking the buckles on his pack; his stunt at the airstrip was just not something that needed an encore. When he was satisfied it would hold, he finished his breakfast and tried to take a nap. Germany had been a bust, just like the last four trips, but it was still far enough that he hadn't minded. Now he's back, and by the looks of it, he'd be staying for a lot longer than usual. Just his luck.

It felt like ages before they reached Cheyenne Mountain. When John stepped out of the car, he was surprised to see Kingston following him.

“Anything else, Lieutenant?” Kingston still had a constipated look on his face. “Well? Don’t keep me waiting.” He pointed a thumb over his shoulder, at the door, where another officer was waiting. “I got places to be.”

There was another stretch of silence, something that was becoming common between him and the Lieutenant. Suddenly feeling every aching joint he came back with, John sighed and hefted his pack before turning to leave. He managed to take four steps before he heard Kingston call out.

“Reprimand.”

John stopped but didn’t turn around. “Yeah. I kinda got that, kid.”

“I disobeyed orders.”

John froze.

It seemed like a long time before he found his voice again, still with his back to the Lieutenant. “And why was that?”

He could hear Kingston shifting his weight from one foot to another. John hated just how quickly a lot of things started to make sense when you're finally given a clue.

“I had to save my team.”

Dropping his pack, John turned and looked at the Lieutenant. Under the base’s harsh light, he could see just how young Kingston was, and how weary.

“And did you?” John asked.

Kingston tore his gaze from his shiny oxfords and looked up, startled. “Sir?”

John decided to be patient. This wasn’t the Lieutenant’s fault, after all. “Save your team.”

The Lieutenant was still confused, but his nod was sharp and proud. “Yes, sir.”

Before he could talk himself out of it, John conjured a grin and stepped forward to give Kingston a heavy pat on the shoulder.

“Then I say you made a good call, son.” With that, he grabbed his bag and walked away.

He was almost to the door before he heard someone running up towards him. This time, John faced the younger man with a scowl. “An hour ago, you couldn’t wait to get rid of me.”

Kingston turned the faintest shade of red. “I, well I— I just wanted to say. I mean—” He shook himself, almost physically wrestling with himself for control. “Thank you. That’s what I wanted to say, sir.”

John wanted to ask what for, but he’s sure that no one was going to appreciate it.

“Anytime, kid.”

This time, Kingston graced him with a small, hesitant smile.

“Have a good day, General.”

* * *

01.2

“No.”

“But—”

“I said no. I am not doing this with you, McKay.” Without warning, the screen shifted, suddenly showing a tilted view of Cabezum’s infamous, green night sky. It continued to wobble, the erratic movement accompanied by a series of muffled grunts and aborted curses. “Oh for— Hey! Give that back!”

“Torren? What’s going on?”

PJ almost reached out to take her data pad, but she was quickly reminded that both her hands were currently preoccupied.

“What’s happening? Torren?”

There was one last grunt before the blur morphed back into Torren’s face, now twisted into a powerful scowl.

“Cabezan children,” he muttered. “More trouble than they are worth.”

They shared a brief moment of camaraderie, all eye rolls and knowing smirks, before Torren remembered that PJ just happened to be one of the troubles he was being forced to deal with.

“ _No_.”

“Torren, you don’t understand—”

“You are right. And I do not have to.”

“— I have to talk to him _right now_. I can’t explain it. If it turns out to be something bad, he’s never gonna let me hear the end of it. He’ll think I’m hiding something from him.”

At that, Torren rolled his eyes. It was a gesture PJ knew all too well and was steadily getting tired of. “Do not be ridiculous. You cannot hide anything from him.”

For a second, something sharp and hot zipped through PJ’s chest, and she was tempted to say that yes, in fact, she really could, but she took a deep breath and tried to reason with her pride.

“Five minutes. A _moment_.” She could hear herself starting to get desperate. “Why can’t I have a moment with my own father?”

Like she knew he would, Torren recognized her sincerity. Unfortunately, that wasn’t enough to break his resolve.

“He really is busy right now, Peej. This was not exactly a vacation.”

All at once, the fight left PJ, and her shoulders slumped in defeat. When she was able to regroup, she resorted to glaring at her best friend’s stupid face on the screen. “If it was so important, why are _you_ there?”

Torren gave her a look that she knew neither of his parents had taught him. Narrowed eyes and raised chin. “Because I am the leader of my people.”

PJ scoffed. “Your mother is the leader of your people.”

“And I am her firstborn.”

She could feel them devolving into the kind of conversation she’d much rather have when Torren was close enough to hit and not light-years away, on another trip she could never be a part of.

“You’re intolerable.” She bared her teeth for good measure, before sighing in defeat. “Will you at least bring me back some snacks?”

Torren’s smug smile turned gentle. “Dr. McKay already purchased a bag of those berries you love so much. I will see if I can find some hommanbread.”

PJ grinned despite herself. “Thanks, Torren.”

“Will that be all, Supreme Commander?”

She waved a dismissing hand, and regretted it immediately when bits of goo flew to the other side of the table. “Hardly. But you’re off the hook for now. Just tell dad to reach me the second he’s available. The very _second_ , you hear me?”

“Yes, yes.”

The screen turned black before she could make any more demands.

For the next two hours, no other calls came. PJ tried to ignore the continuous nagging at the back of her mind, the one that wrenched her out of bed before dawn and kept on insisting that she had to talk to her dad soon.

She was failing quite miserably.

“What is that?”

The familiar sound of Ancient doors sliding shut broke PJ out of her steady descent into madness. She frowned. A newbie mistake, not hearing the door open in the first place.

“Huh?”

On the other side of the laboratory stood her Uncle Daniel, eyes narrowed behind his round glasses. PJ suspected that if he wasn’t holding a clipboard and a data pad, he would’ve placed both his hands on his hips.

“That.” He gestured with his eyebrows, pointing at . . . PJ’s entire person.

Slowly, she looked down at herself. In her orange, pyrovatex coverall, she was the brightest thing in Lab A-3. While not many people shared her fondness for industrial fashion, it was hardly the oddest thing anyone had caught her wearing. There was a period in her childhood days when she’d forgone clothes in general, after all.

“I have four of these,” she tried to answer, not entirely sure why she was being judged by the man who had a reputation for showing up naked and confused in the most unlikely of places.

Uncle Daniel carefully moved towards her, stopping only when they were at the opposite ends of the table.

“I’m not talking about the boilersuit, PJ.”

She frowned. “You’re not?”

Uncle Daniel sighed and hung his head, looking not unlike someone who’d lost all hope there ever was to lose. It was a rather overdramatic and unfair reaction to a perfectly reasonable clarification. When he looked up, he carefully placed his things on the table between them and held her gaze. Uncle Daniel’s eyes were a little smaller than her dad’s, a little brighter, but just as smart and just as familiar. He looked at her the same way more than half the people in the city did. Part affection and all exasperation.

“I was asking about that,” he finally said, using both hands to point at her own pair, which were gloved and covered in—

“Oh.”

When she heard a soft chuckle, she looked up and saw Uncle Daniel giving her an indulgent smile. It made her feel very small, but in a good way.

“It’s not blood, is it?”

Now that she was clued in on what they were talking about, PJ quickly realized that she must be quite a sight right now. The silver, mixing bowl in front of her was filled with a sticky substance the color of deep crimson. It was one of her current projects and the first thing that came to mind when she'd waltzed into the lab a couple of hours ago, bleary-eyed and looking for busywork to distract her from her anxious thoughts.

“Oh, no. It’s not. Not at all.”

“Because while you are a talented medic, I don’t think I need to remind you that surgery is not something you can choose to perform anywhere and anytime. Unlike your father, your chosen profession has certain...restrictions. You can’t just wake up in the middle of the night and indulge your need to crack someone open.” The smirk told PJ there was a dig about the bags under her eyes somewhere in that sentence. So she _did_ wake up in the middle of the night, stone her. “Especially while wearing improper attire. The fact that I’m not seeing a body makes the picture even more sinister, you know.”

To her credit, PJ quickly realized that she was being made fun of. For real, this time.

“Hilarious. Do grow up, Uncle Daniel. It’s just slime.”

In the end, curiosity won over mischief and held the cat by the scruff of his neck. Uncle Daniel leaned over the table to peer at the mixture she’d been working on.

“Slime,” he repeated. It wasn’t a question, but there was a hint of something that told her further explanation would be greatly appreciated.

“Yes, slime.” She scraped out the remaining goo on the latex, gave the mixture one last pat, then took the gloves off. “I’m trying to develop a synthetic version of the mucus from the snails the Biology department brought back last cycle.”

Uncle Daniel carefully slid the bowl toward him, gave it a little shake before bringing the whole thing close to his nose.

“They weren’t snails,” he told her absently. “G’andarra. Native to M3X-647. Not even mollusks nor invertebrates.” He slid the bowl back and shot her a knowing smirk. “They’re also the size of your head when you were eight.”

“Yeah, yeah.” She waved an impatient hand on her way to the sink. “But it doesn’t change the fact that they have the same antimicrobial properties as that of a _Helix aspersa_. Garden snails from Earth. Their mucus has been found useful in treating chronic wound and respiratory infections.”

She almost missed it, her attention focused on the towel she was using to dry her hands, but she was able to catch the smallest of flinches on Uncle Daniel’s face.

“Uncle Daniel?”

At her prompting, he straightened and picked up his things from the table.

“Walk with me?” He inclined his head to the direction of the door, not even waiting for a response before disappearing from PJ’s line of sight.

“Wha— hey, wait up!”

Deciding to leave her things — no one was scheduled to use A-3 for two more days, anyway — PJ tried to keep up with the esteemed Dr. Jackson, who could walk surprisingly fast for someone his age.

“What was that about!” she almost shouted, torn between the need to express herself and the more pressing concern of getting air into her lungs. “You know I hate running.”

They continued to speedwalk along countless more hallways, bumping into a few on-duty personnel and a handful of early birds who were no doubt on their way to the mess hall. PJ huffed and puffed, but Uncle Daniel showed no signs of explaining or slowing down. After a few minutes, mercy came at the sight of a transporter, and PJ was blessed with a moment to rest.

To her right, Uncle Daniel briefly smirked in the face of her obvious distress. “Just keeping you on your toes, kiddo.”

She was momentarily distracted by her automatic sneer at being referred to as a kid that she completely failed to check which section of the city Uncle Daniel tapped before they’re stepping out into what seemed like the hallway that led to a very familiar room.

“Wait.” She made an abrupt stop, arms stretched wide in an effort to prevent them both from taking a single step farther. “Are we going to your office?” His silence was answer enough. “We’re going to your office.” She nodded to herself, mind racing at this bizarre turn of events. “ _Why_ are we going to your office?”

Uncle Daniel gave a her a look that implied she might have missed a few meals too many, but he didn’t put up a fight when she stopped him again from moving forward.

“Okay.” She could already feel herself starting to babble. “Okay. Now, this doesn’t make sense, right? Why are we going to your office? Uncle Daniel, are you sure you’re all right?”

He narrowed his eyes but kept them fixed on the hallway in front of them.

“Let’s just get inside, okay? I’ll explain inside.”

“But— I haven’t been to your office in _years_. It’s the one place in the city I’m not allowed to enter.” Technically, that wasn’t true. If push came to shove, Atlantis would never deny her anything. Still, she took pride in being a rule-abiding Lantean, no matter what her father might say.

Uncle Daniel rolled his eyes. “PJ, you’re not allowed to enter half the places in the city. You just never listen.”

“Well, yeah. But I never go to your office, not anymore.” She didn’t mean to sound sad, but it was still unfair, even after all these years.

“Not after that time you moved all my things and tampered with one of my books, yes.”

They both knew that the decision to keep Dr. Jackson’s office off limits to PJ had nothing to do with the destructive tendencies of a ten-year old’s curiosity. Not even her father’s excuse that he’d stopped finding it amusing that his daughter spent more time with her soft science instructor than the physics lab was the entire truth.

“I just cleaned it. And that book was wrong.”

“I wrote it,” he countered. This time, when Uncle Daniel continued to walk, PJ didn’t stop him.

As they entered the office, PJ was more than a little amazed to discover that apart from a few misplaced things and additional knick knacks, nothing much seemed to have changed since the last time she was there. Over six years ago.

“Dad was right,” she breathed out, a little dazed. “You really are a creature of habit. It’s like a time capsule in here. I feel several inches shorter already.”

Two of the walls were lined with floor-to-ceiling bookshelves, all filled with tomes and artifacts PJ could never hope to identify the origins of. Outside the balcony, the star of Lantea was just beginning to rise.

“Okay.” By the time she sat down on one of the ladderback chairs the Athosians had given Uncle Daniel, she’d decided that enough was enough. “Does this have something to do with you not being on that trip with dad?” She rolled her eyes and raised a hand before he could open his mouth and deny it. “Please. I check every offworld trip log. Everybody knows that.”

PJ also knew that she wouldn’t have caught the second flinch if she wasn’t actively waiting for it.

“I’m right, aren’t I?” All at once, the pulsing sensation at the edge of her consciousness returned with a vengeance, and PJ realized that her left knee had been bouncing from the moment she sat down. “Uncle Daniel, what is going on?”

There was a long pause before Uncle Daniel took a deep breath, then he promptly sat on the chair in front of her.

“We’re going to Earth,” he finally revealed, his words clipped and rushed.

There was a brief moment where PJ was not able to register what Uncle Daniel had said. Instead, her eyes latched unto the small display on his desk, a blue spheroid with green etchings, mounted on an intricate, golden stand. It was an elegant model of Earth — a 'globe' — and the same one Uncle Daniel had used when he used to teach her all about the planet when she was younger.

Like a vortex, the memories of their lessons snapped her back to the present, made her breath catch. As she replayed his last statement, the edges of her vision began to dim.

"PJ?"

The last thing PJ saw was Uncle Daniel leaning toward her, arms raised, before she stopped seeing anything altogether.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Chapter 1 Recap:_  
>    
>  _On Earth, General John Sheppard returns to the SGC after a failed mission in Germany. He is escorted by a young Lieutenant with a chip on his shoulder._  
>    
>  _A galaxy away, on Atlantis, PJ McKay is a sleep-deprived medic with a penchant for crazy experiments. She gets the surprise of her life when her Uncle Daniel tells her that they're going to Earth._

02.1

For as long as she could remember, PJ’s dreams had always been about Atlantis.

There were nights where she’s three-feet tall, barely coming up to people’s hips as she zipped around corridors and hallways, out to the East Pier, with her dad’s deep voice and heavy footsteps hot on her trail. In these dreams, the city always opened up to her, whispering about secret doors and passageways, as delighted to outwit Rodney McKay as little Paula Jane was to outrun him. Colorful memories spun themselves into an endless string of her fondest childhood days, when she’d wanted nothing beyond the sea, the stars, and her daddy’s embrace.

As she got older, however, the dreams started to become more abstract, more boundless. They were still about the city, her spires and window panes, still about the seamless blending of silver and azure, the towers back-dropped with the limitless sky. But as she slept, the figures would slowly turn whimsical, the shapes becoming fickle. It was as though memories alone could no longer sustain PJ’s growing desire to see what lay beyond her castle walls. There was always resistance, during these difficult dreams, and PJ would often wake up before she could push further.

_We’re going to Earth._

This dream was different.

She was weaving through an infinite stretch of green and yellow, the breeze strong but gentle against her skin. The smell of something deep and sweet permeated the air. As she took a step forward, she could feel something warm and coarse beneath her bare feet.

 _Soil_ , her mind supplied. _Grass. Flowers._

PJ had been to the mainland a handful of times. She’d played Rogues and Wraiths with Torren and Jira, had joined harvest festivals when her dad was present and hunting parties when he wasn’t. She had a map of Lantea on her quarters, with red marks on the territories she had managed to explore. On the eve of her 12th birthday, she’d realized that the map was already more red than green. She remembered sleeping in tears, the feeling that she was running out of something vital pulsing against her veins.

So yes, she knew what land felt like. Her feet had been somewhere other than the city’s cool, dark floors. But Lantea’s mainland was nothing like this. The meadow PJ found herself in ran as far as her eyes could see. It was as though she stepped right into one of Colonel Lorne’s picture books, the ones about the _Polish countryside_ and _English gardens_. She could recognize _winter annual weeds_ and bright _Ranunculus acris_.

It looked like paradise.

_We’re going to Earth._

PJ brushed away stray locks of unruly hair, tucked them behind her ear and welcomed the breeze that smelled nothing at all like the salty tang of the crashing waves or the sharp, chemical scent of the city walls.

_We’re going to Earth._

_Going to Earth._

_Earth._

_“Enough!”_

She was wrenched from her frolic across the sea of golden flora by a swirl of blue and purple light. The next thing PJ knew, she was waking up to the sound of waves and muted voices.

_“Let go of me, Radek.”_

_“You need to calm down, Rodney.”_

_Dad_ , was what PJ tried to say, but her throat would not cooperate. Slowly, she catalogued the rest of the sensations she was able to manage through her limited perception. She was lying down, in a supine position, and on her own bed, judging by the familiar texture of the fabric under her fingers. Her body felt warm all over, and her head was light and delicate. That, along with the nausea, were all consistent with vasovagal syncope.

_“And he has the nerve to say he was doing me a favor! Can you believe him?”_

_“Gentlemen. I think it would be best if you leave the room.”_

_“Teyla…”_

_“You are right, of course. Come now, Rodney.”_

PJ wanted to open her eyes and tell her dad not to go, but she didn’t have the will to do much of anything. The last thing she felt were gentle fingers on her forehead before she’s slipping back into the abyss.

When she woke up again, PJ could tell that there were fewer people in the room. Somehow, that made announcing her return to consciousness a little easier.

“Too bright,” she mumbled, when the harsh glare of the overhead light almost immediately made her eyes water.

As the lights adjusted, PJ felt warm fingers on her arm. It took a while before she realized that the figure by her bedside was her Ada Teyla.

“Careful,” her soft voice instructed when PJ tried to sit up. “You have slept for a long time. You must refrain from making any sudden movements.”

PJ knew that, between the two of them, she had far more knowledge of the human body, but this was her Ada, and she obeyed the gentle command as easily as she used to when she was but a child.

The next few moments were spent with PJ submitting herself to Ada Teyla’s ministrations. It was familiar, and something she hadn’t realized she’d fiercely missed. She drank water, tea, more water, and even the bitter concoction that the Athosians loved to administer as a remedy for almost all ailments known to Pegasus. PJ knew that it had no human medicinal benefits whatsoever; she’d checked after the third time she had to take it. Frankly, she suspected that it was the foul taste that provided enough stimuli to overwhelm any symptoms. She had yet to share that theory with Torren.

“Ada?”

It took a while for Ada Teyla to be satisfied. After the third time her eyes and hands made a circuit around PJ’s head, PJ knew she had to intervene.

“I’m okay,” she assured the older woman, catching her hands in PJ’s own. Ada Teyla’s fingers were weathered but strong, and it had been a long time since she was able to just hold on to them. “Everything’s okay.”

Ada Teyla blinked, then ducked her head, her slight wince betraying the shame at having been caught fussing.

“Of course,” she whispered, more to herself than to anyone else. Then she squeezed PJ’s hands, and it seemed as though everything _was_ all right.

“Where’s everybody?”

PJ shifted in her bed and looked around her empty quarters.

“I sent them away,” was Ada Teyla’s response, delivered with a conspiratorial eyebrow that had always delighted PJ. “It did not take long for me to see that the quickest way to ensure your recovery was to remove any and all that may cause you . . . distress.”

PJ couldn’t help the answering grin that stretched across her face. They both knew exactly who had to be evicted out of the room to achieve any sense of peace. While the knowledge that her dad was back in the city made the itch to see him more persistent, PJ was grateful for the reprieve.

“Thanks, Ada.”

Ada Teyla brought one of her hands to PJ’s face, her thumb gently tracing an eyebrow.

“You are most welcome, Líla.”

PJ closed her eyes and allowed herself to lean toward the touch.

“I missed you,” she whispered to the darkness.

PJ knew that she should feel silly for saying such a thing. Her Ada never went away, never hurt her by leaving and not coming back. Still, she’d felt the longing right down to her bones, and when she opened her eyes, it was with such sweet relief that she welcomed the tenderness she once thought was lost to her.

Instead of answering, Ada Teyla bowed and leaned their heads together.

They stayed that way for a long moment. When Ada Teyla finally pulled away, her eyes were shining.

“Is there anything else you require? I believe Dr. Beckett will be here soon.” She squeezed PJ’s hands one last time, her smile sympathetic. “Along with your father.”

PJ groaned, but her frustration was more reflex than anything. She really did want to see her dad, especially now that she had a lot of questions.

“Patience,” she answered helplessly. Her feigned petulance was worth it when she heard Ada Teyla chuckle. “Seriously, Ada. Dad’s going to be _impossible_ today. I just know it.”

Before the other woman could have a chance to commiserate, PJ froze, her entire body tensing up the way it always did when Atlantis communicated to her that someone was coming. After a beat, she felt herself relax. She didn’t need to grant permission to enter her quarters, since whoever it was apparently had access and therefore, was family. When the door chimed and slid open, she wasn’t entirely surprised to see General Carter step in.

PJ beamed. “Hi, Sam.”

“Hey, sprout.” Sam winked, then nodded at the woman on PJ’s bed side. “Teyla.”

When PJ turned, her heart sank. Gone was her Ada, replaced by someone she could only recognize as Chancellor Emmagan. She released PJ’s hands and returned the nod.

“General.”

Pursing her lips, Sam approached the bed from PJ’s left side.

“You missed lunch,” she said casually, like there was any chance PJ would miss the way she subtly examined PJ’s face and arms. “Heard you got yourself in some kind of trouble.”

It wasn’t uncommon for people to show great concern for PJ’s well-being. She understood who she was and what she represented, after all. But it still humbled her to see the way Sam visibly relaxed when she was finally convinced that PJ was all right.

When she moved closer to gather PJ in her arms, she mumbled, “Your dad was pretty worried,” against PJ’s hair, trusting the younger girl to understand what she wasn’t saying.

PJ did, but she couldn’t help the frown when Sam pulled away.

“Where is he?”

Sam gave her a soft smile, as sympathetic as Ada Teyla’s had been. “In his office. Tearing your Uncle Daniel a new one.”

When PJ’s shoulders slumped, Sam tutted and lifted PJ’s chin up with one hand. “Hey, now. It wasn’t your fault, okay? Daniel and Rodney will sort things out in no time.”

To both their surprise, Ada Teyla shifted in her place on the other side of PJ’s bed and made a noise that sounded like a hiss.

“I do not think it is as simple as that, General.” Ada Teyla’s voice was clipped but deceptively gentle. “Like Rodney, I, too, believe that Dr. Jackson spoke out of turn.”

Frankly, the last thing PJ wanted was to discuss what Uncle Daniel had told her. She wanted to keep it as far out of her mind as she could before her father arrived.

But judging by the way the women on either side of her were holding themselves, like coiled springs that were only being kept from snapping by sheer force of will, PJ knew avoidance was not a feasible option.

“I understand where you’re coming from, Teyla, I really do. But Daniel had his reasons.” PJ almost flinched when Sam turned back to her, the grip on her hands like a lifeline. “He really thought telling you right away was best for everyone. It’s just that, well, your reaction was . . . unexpected.”

PJ waited for Ada Teyla to disagree, but she only stood up and squared her shoulders.

“I have no doubt that you and Dr. Jackson only had Paula Jane’s best interests in mind.” As gracefully as she did everything else, Ada Teyla packed all the things she brought with her inside a purple, woven hand basket and gave PJ a kiss to the temple. “Rest, Líla. I will see you and your father at dinner.”

With another polite nod to Sam, Ada Teyla left the room.

There was a long moment of silence after that. By some unspoken agreement, PJ scooted a little to her right, leaving just enough space for Sam to settle next to her on the bed. When they were both comfortable, PJ lay her head on Sam’s shoulder, not even caring about the rough material of her uniform.

It was a practiced tableau, perfected from all those months when PJ would wake up screaming, Sam’s name on her lips before she could even tap her comm set. Now, whenever her dad’s away and General Carter was in Atlantis, PJ would spend most nights drifting to sleep to the sound of Sam humming in her ear.

If the locket against her chest would burn like she was committing the worst kind of betrayal every time, PJ just tried not to think about it.

“What’s on your mind, sprout?”

PJ turned and tried to bury her face on the pillow behind Sam. She knew she should feel ashamed for taking such liberties with people’s affections for her, but she’d woken up with a heavy heart and Ada Teyla’s abrupt departure had left her hollow.

She wanted to apologize to Sam, but she knew it would only be an insult to her Ada. PJ wouldn’t even know what the apology would be for, anyway. She just felt like she had to say something about it this time. She’d been ignoring it for so long now, the gulf between the two women most dear to her.

“Did you know?” was what she mumbled instead.

Sam, like her dad, never liked it when she mumbled. She took PJ’s head with both hands and turned it this way and that, until both of PJ’s cheeks were cradled by dexterous fingers, squished like a baby sekorrida.

“Did you know?” PJ repeated. “About what Uncle Daniel told me?”

There was a flash of hesitation on Sam’s face. Her eyes twitched a bit, blue ones very much like PJ’s that she used to pretend when she was little. _What if_.

“I did.” Sam let go of her cheeks and placed her hands on her lap. “Orders came in with the last databurst.”

PJ whipped her head so fast she knew she’d torn a ligament. “But—”

“And no, it wasn’t part of the packets you routinely hack.”

She’d known that Sam knew about it for some time now, but PJ still felt herself flush. It wasn’t like she’d been accessing restricted files all her life, anyway. She’d only started seven months ago.

“Was dad really gonna keep it from me?”

PJ wasn’t stupid. She could read between the lines, and the fact that Uncle Daniel went behind her dad’s back meant that Rodney McKay probably didn’t want his daughter to know about it. Not yet, anyway.

She wasn’t even mad about it. It was a worn-out symphony between the two of them, PJ and her dad, and she really did understand her dad’s concerns. What’s troubling her was a suspicion that there was more to the whole thing than what’s on the surface.

“PJ…”

“How upset is he, really?” She slumped back on her bed, feeling more tired than someone who just woke up ought to be. “Is he gonna send Uncle Daniel to a spacegate? He’s been threatening to do that for a while now.”

Before Sam could answer, there was a tell-tale chirp from her comm set. After listening to whoever it was, Sam looked down on PJ and smirked.

“Why don’t we ask him, hmm? He’s on his way as we speak.”

* * *

02.2

John shifted the phone to his other ear, using his now-liberated right hand to tighten the laces of his left boot. It didn’t quite work the way he’d expected. The voice on the other end of the line continued, regaling him with tales of pink unicorns and terrified nannies.

“I don’t know what to tell you, buddy,” John replied. When he heard a snort, almost absentminded, the knot in his chest began to unfurl. “You don’t exactly have a leg to stand on here. You’re worse at saying no than I am.”

For a long moment, there was no response. He briefly wondered if Matthew finally caught up on his long-overdue, teenage rebellion phase and just slammed the receiver on him.

There was static, followed by a soft sound that seemed a little surprised and almost apologetic.

“Sorry,” Matthew said, always so polite. “Got distracted.”

It’s a good thing John wasn’t so sensitive. “Reading?”

Matthew hummed in agreement, attention no doubt slipping away from the conversation. Again. John knew he had to take the reins before he started taking it personally.

“So listen,” he started, shifting the phone again after giving up on the laces altogether. “Will you be at home this weekend?”

Matthew had mentioned something about touring colleges, but John couldn’t really remember the details.

“Uh, yeah. I guess.” He could hear a rustling sound, like someone putting their book down and sitting up straight. The kid had always been quick on the uptake and too damn smart for his own good. “You coming home?”

It was a simple enough question, but John’s heart had leapt all the same. He tried to swallow the lump down, before it rendered his tongue useless.

“Yeah, I— Yeah. Maybe.” Clearing his throat would be a bit too much, so he settled for a short cough. “Might get some time off.”

He let the words hang in the air, enough time for Matthew to absorb them. They both knew the script all too well by now, and after a moment, the kid didn’t disappoint.

“All right.” It was the standard response. They understood that there was no guarantee, and John never made any promises, either. Still, it was the gesture that counted. Matthew’s too good a boy to spring an ultimatum on him. “Let me know if you need anything.”

Part of John wanted to laugh, because an 18-year old shouldn’t be saying things like that. But Matthew was his flesh and blood, and John knew the offer was made with nothing but utmost sincerity.

“Kiss your sister goodnight for me?”

It’s meant to diffuse some of the tension, and sure enough, Matthew laughed, surprised and incredulous, voice lighter than it had been a second ago. “It’s three in the afternoon.”

Slowly, John stood up, shifting the phone to the other ear one last time. “I meant later, smartass. And make sure she doesn’t stay up too late.”

It’s a running joke, John’s twisted and awkward attempts at parenting, but Matthew never seemed to mind all that much.

“Easier said than done.”

When the chuckles died, John fingers started twitching, torn between pushing the button to end the call and gripping the phone tighter, to let the conversation continue for a little while longer.

Fortunately, common sense won out. “So uh, I guess I’ll see you soon, bud.”

“See you soon, John.”

Just like always, it’s Matthew who ended the call and John who stood still in the subsequent silence, skin suddenly too tight and grip not tight enough.

“General?”

It’s a testament to John’s rotten luck that he’s interrupted not even a minute later.

He didn’t jump, but it was a near enough thing. Instead, he turned to glare at the PA system mounted on the far corner of the otherwise bare office.

“Are you there, sir? The logs indicate that you are, but your door wouldn’t initiate.”

John almost stopped himself from snorting before he realized that the woman, who sounded like she was close to tears, couldn’t actually hear him.

There’s nothing on the Mountain that John could manipulate with his genes, but he’d learned the advantage of locked doors that only you could open way before he’d joined the Air Force.

Feeling a little petty, he took his sweet time going over to the desk to retrieve his radio before opening the door.

“My apologies,” John drawled at the flustered young officer, waving the headset with one hand. “Forgot my thingamajig.”

Like most people in the SGC, Sergeant Baxter regarded him with a wary, almost-suspicious gaze. The woman looked like she wasn’t buying John’s bullshit, either, but she held her tongue and gave him a sharp nod.

“The meeting is about to start, sir. They’re asking for you.”

Tapping the controls to shut the door behind him, John despaired of the program’s future, with so many of its successors sorely lacking a functioning sense of humor.

“Do we know what the fuss is all about?” he asked Baxter.

The entire base had a manic energy to it when John had arrived. People weren’t exactly zipping about like headless chickens, but he could sense a quiet intensity, like something big was just thrumming underneath, waiting for the ball to drop. A distant part of his mind had reminded him of crunch times in another place, a different base, when everyone’s running on fumes, the sky was falling down around their ears, and absolutely nothing was left in Pandora’s box.

He’d promptly shoved the thought away.

The Sergeant just kept shooting him anxious, sidelong glances. “It’s all in the files Colonel Pullman sent you, sir.”

John paused mid-step. Suddenly, the silver data pad on his desk made a whole lot of sense. At one point, he’d actually thought it was some fancy paperweight.

“Did you requisition new data pads?”

Baxter, who hadn’t realized John was no longer keeping up with her, spun and shot him a complicated expression.

“Sir?”

“The data pads.” He raised a hand to show her a very small gap between thumb and forefinger. “Little thin, don’t you think?”

Sergeant Baxter looked like she’d rather be anywhere but where she was at the moment: frozen in the hallway, entertaining the ramblings of a probably-deranged, two-star General. At least, that’s what John thought she looked like.

He couldn’t help himself, though. The new data pads just didn’t sit right with him. They were too delicate, and he knew just how intense people who regularly use data pads could be.

”More form than function, right? I think someone ought to tell Pullman he’d gotten a bad deal. Someone clearly ripped him off.”

Before John’s mind could start working on a better design, maybe apply a few elements from the ones the Tok’ra used, his eyes caught Baxter’s pleading face.

“Sir?” she called out, looking a breath away from putting her hands together and genuflecting. “We really need to go.”

John decided to take the high road and drop the subject. He filed it for further examination, though, because the thing really did bother him.

With what he knew was a smarmy smile, John raised an arm and dipped his head. “Lead the way.”

Two left turns and another right later, John was beginning to realize just where Baxter was taking him to. There was only ever one conference room that the SGC used for Very Important Meetings, the kind that tended to involve people who were too fancy for the standard leather chairs but too vital just to be given a memo.

John’s back straightened of its own volition.

The door that led to the conference room was dark red, and John spared a moment to think about what that might symbolize. Beside him, Baxter’s rigid posture was just shy of a parade rest. John didn’t need her to tell him that his cue to get his ass inside had come and gone.

He shrugged and opened the ominous-looking door.

“General Sheppard.”

Thomas Pullman scowled at John from across the room, not even bothering to stand and salute. He was one of seven people currently surrounding the shiny, rectangular table parked at the center. It looked a hell of a lot like the one his Gramma Sandy had, back in that empty, blue house Patrick Sheppard had grown up in. John briefly wondered who in the Mountain had felt like the SGC needed Cuban mahogany.

“Tommy,” he greeted, not the least bit mindful of the other people with them, now watching the exchange like it was a pay-per-view event. John had already met most of them, anyway. They’d already had their respective opinions of him, and poking fun at SGC’s stuffy second-in-command would hardly make them change their minds.

Careful to keep an eye on Pullman’s sneering face, John was on his way to claim the empty seat across the man when he heard the door open, followed by someone brushing past him on their way inside.

“Sheppard,” the distinct voice of Cameron Mitchell drawled from behind him. When John turned, he was a little taken aback to see the man in his dress uniform. “’Bout time you showed up.”

John quickly snapped to attention and saluted. Mostly, he did it more for how it amused the hell out of Cam, and less for the three, silver stars on each of the man’s epaulettes. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Pullman do the same.

When Cam returned the salute, John relaxed and raised an eyebrow. The man had no trouble understanding what he meant.

“I got here an hour ago,” was Cam’s reply to the unspoken accusation, his voice a little soft. Unlike John, he actually had to take the presence of their other guests seriously. “Had to piss after waiting for your lazy ass.”

Before John could show everyone in the room how not to treat one’s commanding officer, Cam shot him a smirk and waltzed to the head of the table.

“Now that we’re all here,” General Mitchell started, managing to give everyone else a respectful nod and drag John under the bus in one breath. John just shrugged, taking the seat to Cam’s left. Just as Cam opened his mouth to continue, Pullman cleared his throat and tried to catch the General’s eye.

“Yes, Colonel?”

“There’s one more, sir. We’re waiting for one more.”

While John kept one eye on the silent, almost telepathic conversation between Pullman and Cam, he carefully eyeballed the only two people in the room he didn’t recognize, both of them occupying the seats to the Colonel’s right.

One was a blonde with dark, green eyes. She had all the makings of a bureaucrat, all sharp suit and neat hair. Her fingernails were painted as red as the conference room’s door, and she kept tapping them against the table as she waited for General Mitchell to continue.

To her left was someone significantly younger, with sandy-brown hair and bright, blue eyes. He looked like he was probably half John’s age. To John’s surprise, the kid coolly returned the scrutinizing gaze when he’d noticed that John was staring.

“And do we know when he’s coming?”

John gave Blue Eyes a customary nod before refocusing on Cam and Pullman. Just as the Colonel was about to answer, the door opened and Sergeant Baxter strolled in.

“He’s here, General.”

John bit his tongue and decided not to point out how unfair it was that _he_ was neither escorted nor announced when he arrived. He didn't mind Pullman not saluting, the bastard knew how to skirt around the regulations he loved so much. Still, some respect would not go amiss.

Before he could properly brood, someone rolled a wheelchair inside, and all petty thoughts fled John’s mind as soon as he saw just who it was.

“Mr. Woolsey,” Cam greeted as he stood from his seat. “Welcome back.”

Richard Woolsey graced Cam with a gracious smile.

“Thank you, General,” he replied, voice delicate but still commanding. With a nod, he turned his gaze on John, apparently not needing to scan the room to know just where he was. “John.”

John remained frozen in his chair.

“Richard.”

Fortunately for everyone, once Woolsey was settled in the empty space opposite Cam, the latter formally started the meeting.

“Well then.” Cam made a production of rubbing his hands together. “I understand that everyone read the brief they were sent?”

Heart still racing, John kept his attention on a spot at the center of the table. He did, however, see the way Pullman preened, no doubt with pride at having prepared the brief, the one John didn’t touch.

He didn’t care; he needed to get out of the room _right now_.

“Actually, General, that’s what I wanted to discuss with you this morning.”

Surprising John a second time, the kid sitting beside Pullman addressed Cam evenly. Next to him, the Colonel barely managed to suppress an eye twitch. For such a high-ranking officer, the man had no poker face to speak of.

Cam, bless his heart, tried to offer a polite nod. “I believe that’s what we’re here for. To outline the details.”

“That’s what I keep telling him, General,” Pullman readily supported.

Blue Eyes didn’t even flinch. John had to hand it to him, the kid’s got balls. “And as I told the Colonel, it was imperative that we had it straightened out before this meeting.” He offered a smile to the rest of the people around the table, authoritative and courteous at the same time. John was also starting to hear the accent the kid was trying hard to conceal.

“Well. We’re just gonna have to hash it out here, then.” Cam betrayed nothing of his growing discomfort, but John, having worked with him all these years, knew that he was slowly losing patience. “Everyone, this is…” He nodded at Blue Eyes, who smoothly took his cue.

“Parker,” the kid continued. John felt a little relieved, realizing that he really was not supposed to know him, after all. “Declan Parker. I report to the Director of National Intelligence.”

At that, John’s ears perked up. He sent a brief glance at Cynthia Halliwell, who had been their NID liaison for the past six years. Sensing his attention, Cynthia gave him a surreptitious nod, before turning her attention back on Cam.

After acknowledging Parker’s introduction, Cam resumed with his monologue. John, on the other hand, sat back and went over the events of the last few months. London. Shanghai. Germany.

He risked a glance at Woolsey, who kept his attention on Cam and Pullman. John knew the man was aware of him, though. He knew it just as he knew exactly where the meeting was moving towards.

Slowly, the pieces started to fall into place, and John felt something like dread settle in his stomach when he tuned in back to the discussion.

“And we are pleased to inform all of you that both the president and the IOA have green-lighted the first phase of the project,” Cam went on, sounding like he was reading off a script. He wasn’t fooling John one bit. “While this was not exactly how we saw the declassification to begin, it was a necessary compromise to avoid other . . . consequences of the leak.”

“And the city?”

Woolsey addressed his question to Cam, but John was not surprised to see that this time, the man kept his eyes solely on John.

After all these years, Richard Woolsey was still three steps ahead of him.

“Yes, Mr. Woolsey,” Cam replied, voice sounding distant against the rushing in John’s ears. “Atlantis will be here in two weeks.”


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Chapter 2 Recap:_  
>    
>  _PJ's dreams, which have always been about Atlantis her entire life, are starting to change. She also notices that the tension between General Carter and her Ada Teyla are getting worse as details of their trip to Earth begin to unfold._  
>    
>  _Meanwhile, John struggles to find a balance between family responsibilities and his return to direct Stargate Command involvement. He also meets a familiar face as word of declassification and Atlantis' return changes the life he's been living all these years._

03.1

_“I have to say, I’m quite surprised by this decision. One would think we’d have to restrain you before you agreed to take some time off.”_

_“Yeah, well. Had to be done, I guess.”_

_“If only other people came to the same conclusion.”_

_“What? You can’t possibly— come on, you know he can’t—”_

_“I know, I know. Forgive me. And I understand perfectly, Colonel. Given the situation— well, either way, we’re all glad that you’re doing this voluntarily.”_

_“Er, thanks. I think.”_

_“Have a good trip, John. We’ll see you in two weeks.”_

Cam was the last one out of his seat, lingering by the door long before everyone else had left.

Fortunately, no one had said anything about General Sheppard and Richard Woolsey staying behind. It was obvious to anyone looking that Woolsey wasn’t planning on leaving anytime soon. John, on the other hand, just couldn’t make himself move.

“We’re really glad to have you here, Mr. Woolsey.” Cam had his hands clasped in front of him, giving Woolsey another respectful nod. “You wouldn’t believe the number of times we could’ve used someone like you around here.”

The comment fell on deaf ears in the most spectacular way, and any other day John would’ve given Cam hell for it. Instead, he just watched his CO with a controlled and practiced sense of detachment. It’s the only way for John to stop himself from completely shaking out of his own skin.

“Right,” said the commander of the Stargate Program. “I’ll just— yeah.”

In an impressive display of self-preservation, Cam didn’t bother with finishing his sentence. The last thing John heard was the soft click of the door as it was shut, leaving him alone in the room with someone he thought he’d never have to face anymore.

“Mitchell’s a good man,” he heard himself say, when the silence was starting to get to him.

It hadn’t been an easy time for John, when General Landry died and Cameron Mitchell was promoted to Brigadier General and given the command of the Stargate Program. He hadn’t been around much, so he wasn’t privy to all the things that went down. He did, however, remember his attempts to console Dr. Carolyn Lam, who had been checking on his stitches and had broken down in front of him, saying something about losing her father and her husband of barely two years at the same time.

He hadn’t been entirely surprised when he heard the news of the divorce a couple of months later. Choosing to bite the bullet and stick around, John had imparted some of his wisdom as a fellow divorcee and made sure Cam wasn’t going to do anything stupid. In turn, Cam had made sure John wouldn’t have to be in the Mountain unless absolutely necessary, made sure John didn’t have to deal with things he had sworn he would no longer deal with.

Somehow, the whole thing cemented their friendship.

Woolsey’s eyes, which had been trained on John ever since Cam had declared the meeting adjourned, flickered knowingly.

“It’s good to see you again, John.”

There was sincerity in Woolsey’s voice, but it only succeeded in making John grip the armrests tighter.

His hands had started shaking halfway through Pullman’s report on the indefinite suspension of offworld missions, so hard that he’d been sure everyone was going to notice. Part of him had wanted them to see, too, if only to give him an excuse to bolt out of the room.

But Pullman had finished his report, and John’s hands had stopped shaking. Now they were just numb.

“I wish I could say the same.”

The last time John had seen Richard Woolsey was twelve years ago, during the man’s retirement party with the rest of SGC. Woolsey had looked overwhelmed, but he’d gracefully allowed people to shake his hand and congratulate him.

John'd had no doubt that it hadn’t been the first party in Woolsey’s honor. He’d stepped through the gate wearing a golden sash and a wistful expression on his face, after all. It was just the party that John had been invited to.

They hadn’t had a chance to talk then. John had just come from Austin, tired and weary. He’d made himself scarce after two glasses of bourbon, and he hadn’t returned to the Mountain almost a year after that night.

“As do I,” Woolsey said, not particularly surprised by John’s response.

What followed was a long stretch of silence that John was not feeling inclined to break. After a moment, Woolsey leaned on his wheelchair and threaded his fingers in front of him.

“So,” he started, giving John a curious look, “how was Germany?”

Of all the things John expected Woolsey to bring up, his latest disaster of a trip hadn’t been one of them. The surprise jolted him back to the present, dread giving way to suspicion, along with the tiniest bit of curiosity.

“Keeping tabs on me now?”

John wasn’t entirely sure what he’s doing, poking so close to the elephant in the room. He just knew that the idea of people knowing about his activities meant that he hadn’t yet managed to completely disappear into obscurity. It meant that someone was still keeping an eye on him, be it Woolsey or someone else, someone who was still interested in what John was up to, even after all these years.

Woolsey just chuckled, waving a hand to the direction of the door.

“Sergeant Allison Baxter was complaining about you in the hallway. Something to do with data pads and possible head injuries. “

Easing his grip on his seat, John swallowed hard, the bitter taste of what he refused to call disappointment burning in his throat.

“I’m not really her favorite person right now.”

He really must’ve taxed Baxter’s patience this time. She was normally competent, and not exactly prone to disclosing confidential information to anyone willing to listen, not even a former IOA representative and base commander.

Woolsey’s face remained neutral, betraying nothing of what he was thinking or planning to say. It only raised John’s hackles.

“What are you doing here, Richard?”

Despite every nerve under John’s skin telling him to run while he still had the chance, he could admit that it was good to see a familiar face again.

Granted, he and Richard Woolsey hadn’t had the best history, beginning _and_ end. John was always going to be an unqualified military commander and Woolsey, a civilian puppet. Woolsey had first seen him as a cocky grunt, while the other man would always be someone who’d taken the place that had once belonged to a woman very dear to John.

But John and Woolsey had come to respect each other over the years, and it was those years that John held unto as he stopped himself from doing something reckless and stupid.

“Better yet, what am _I_ doing here?”

John never stayed in SGC for long. That was the deal.

For a second, John was convinced that Woolsey was going to cut through the chase and give him a straight answer. The thought sent a hot flare of panic down his spine, and the urge to take back the words was so powerful, he might’ve tipped over if he hadn’t been glued to his seat.

Whatever it was that flashed across his face, Woolsey saw, and he gave John a small nod. The relief was more palpable than the shame of being so completely exposed.

“My sister’s youngest just finished law school. She called me yesterday.”

As Woolsey smiled, his eyes shifted, and he got a faraway look on his face.

“I was somewhat of a mentor to Celine. She grew up wanting nothing, a sheltered child with little knowledge of the outside world. Right after I was recruited to the NID, I took her to a homeless shelter. My sister threw a fit, of course. It drove a wedge between us, and our relationship has never been the same ever since.” When he turned back to John, there was a proud curl to his lips. “But the trip changed my niece. She started showing interest in legislation and philanthropy. She was nine.”

“And now she’s following her uncle’s footsteps.” Despite himself, John found it endearing. “Well. Tell her I said congratulations. Her world’s about to change big time.”

It took a moment for John to realize that he’d walked right into that one. The twinkle in Woolsey’s eyes was confirmation enough.

“It’s not just Celine’s world that’s about to change, General.”

All at once, John was reminded that the man sitting across from him was an experienced bureaucrat. Just because Woolsey wore the face of an old friend, did not mean he couldn’t be handled like one. John had gotten good at handling things he didn’t want to, all right.

He shifted in his seat, adopting an air of nonchalance that most foreign delegates loved to sneer at. “We all knew this was bound to happen, remember? The Program’s been preparing for it since the beginning.”

Slowly, John willed his body to slouch in a way that any outsider would interpret as lazy and impertinent. Some people might even go so far as to call it a crude privilege of rank, but he knew that Woolsey knew better.

“They’re not ready, John. It wasn’t supposed to happen this way.”

For a moment, John thought Woolsey was talking about what he thought he was talking about, and John’s stomach twisted in the worst of knots. Then he forced himself to swallow when he realized that Woolsey was talking about people in general. Tau’ri. Earth.

For the first time since they’d started talking, John saw something other than restrained amusement in the other man’s eyes. It took him back to a memory from half a lifetime ago, when he’d first begrudgingly accepted that maybe Richard P. Woolsey was more than just a paper pusher in an expensive suit.

“I don’t know what you want from me,” he finally managed to say, his careful breathing hopefully the only indication of his struggle not to let the past pull him under. “I don’t call the shots here.”

Woolsey might have been retired for over a decade now, but he was bound to at least know some of what’s going on in SGC. He might have the rank and the stars, but John didn’t have many friends nowadays. He’d made sure of that.

Case in point: Cam’s pet project that John fucking knew nothing about.

“I know,” Woolsey answered, his voice not lacking sympathy. “But like I said, things will begin to change faster than you can anticipate, and John, I want you to be prepared.”

There was urgency in the man’s words now, and John realized with dread that he might no longer be able to stall the hysteria that had threatened to pulse out of him the moment Woolsey was wheeled into the room.

“What are you talking about, Richard? What’s going on here?”

Cards on the table, John figured he might as well stop pretending he knew anything.

“Before the week ends, Cameron Mitchell will step down from his post as Stargate Program Commander. Samantha Carter will be promoted as Lieutenant General, and she will take his place.”

Years of training and combat experience were the only things stopping John from outright jumping out of his seat.

“You’re kidding.”

Woolsey’s grim face was answer enough.

“General Carter is going to need a right-hand man. She hasn’t been around much lately, so she will be unaccustomed to how things operate. She will need someone who can get things done fast and efficiently.” He leveled John with an even look. “Someone outside the system.”

“You mean me.” He kept his stare blank, a little stupid. When Woolsey didn’t bite, he scoffed. “Carter doesn’t need me.”

“Carter is going to need you,” Woolsey insisted. “And so will he.”

For something John had seen coming, it was still a slap in the face. It didn’t even take Woolsey that long to bring out the big guns. He must be desperate, and it made the weight in John’s stomach heavier.

“Right,” John managed to say, his voice sounding rough even to his own ears. “I think that’s enough for now.”

“John—”

John didn’t want to think about it yet. He was just beginning to understand some of it himself, and to complete the picture he needed answers. Woolsey couldn’t give them to him.

“You really should leave now, Richard.”

Fortunately, Woolsey saw whatever it was John had wanted him to see on his face, because he gave John a sharp nod and tapped something on his wrist. A moment later, another NCO John didn’t recognize stepped inside the conference room and wheeled Woolsey away.

As soon as the door was shut, John pushed his seat back so hard it almost toppled over.

Fists shaking, John faced the mirror that took up more than half of the only bare wall in the room. He’d been avoiding it for most of the meeting, which proved to be tactical error in retrospect. Without bothering to hide the tremor in his hands, John forced himself to speak.

“Show’s over. You can come out now.”

There was silence, before part of the mirror hissed and slid open, revealing the face of a man John had been hoping never to see again for a long time.

From across the room, Jack O’Neill gave him a tight smile.

“Hello, Sheppard.”

* * *

03.2

“That’s it? You’re done?”

PJ was proud of herself for ignoring the temptation to roll her eyes, especially since she’s positioned directly in her dad’s line of sight. She wasn’t, however, able to hold back the snort that had been prompted by the sight of both Sam and Dr. Beckett giving in to their own juvenile urges, their exasperated faces almost identical and very much hilarious.

“Sorry,” she mumbled when her dad’s gimlet eye found hers, clearing her throat for good measure.

It took a moment to realize her mistake, and by then it was already too late. Covering up her reaction with an exaggerated cough only seemed to send her dad into greater hysterics.

“Did you— Carson! Wait, what are you doing? Are you— why are you _standing_ up?” His hands came out of his pockets and started to fly all over the place. “Was I the only one who heard that cough? I _told_ you we should’ve just brought her to the infirmary!”

Dr. Beckett didn’t stop packing his things, just sent PJ a cheeky wink in plain view of the other man in the room. PJ heard Sam chuckle while her dad continued to splutter in outrage.

“Did you just—”

“I don’t need to remind you to rest, now do I, love?” Dr. Beckett asked her.

Taking pride in being an obedient pupil, PJ gave her mentor a resolute nod. The exchange did not escape Rodney McKay, who took a step forward, poised to strike.

“Is _anyone_ going to—”

Fortunately for everyone, Sam stood up from her place near PJ’s writing desk and blocked her dad’s path. “Rodney, calm down.”

“Sam—”

“Between the four of us, it’s the two of them who are best equipped to give an accurate assessment of the situation, don’t you think?”

PJ could see the moment her dad saw reason. He visibly deflated, though his eyes remained sharp as they darted back and forth between her and Dr. Beckett, the look of betrayal still present but was now just all bluster.

“Relax, Rodney.” Dr. Beckett placed one hand on the other man’s shoulder, squeezing once before giving his friend a warm smile. “Paula Jane is in perfect health. She just needs a little rest, and she’ll be right as rain.”

Feeling a little cheeky herself, PJ gave them a thumbs up from her place on the bed. After a beat, her dad sighed, already fighting back a smile.

“All right, all right. You are the grand voodoo priest, my daughter is your grand voodoo minion, and I know nothing.”

Dr. Beckett’s smile got wider. “And ya’ best remember that.” With a pat on the cheek, he let go of PJ’s dad and jerked his head to the door. “I’ll be going, then. Plenty of voodoo matters to take care of.”

“Yes, yes.” Her dad waved a hand impatiently. “I can only tolerate so many pseudo-scientists at once.”

“Hey!” PJ couldn’t help but protest.

As the door slid open, Dr. Beckett gave her dad an meaningful look. “After dinner. Don’t forget.”

The small smile on her dad’s face vanished, and PJ watched as he gave Dr. Beckett a tentative nod and, as if sensing eyes on them, shored up one of his infamous scowls. “Get out of here, Carson.”

Throwing his hands in surrender, Dr. Beckett gave a mock salute and left the room. When he was gone, Rodney McKay turned his sights on her daughter.

Before PJ could say something, anything to defend herself against what would no doubt be a dressing down of epic proportions, Sam grabbed her dad’s arm, forcing his attention to shift to her.

“Go easy on her, okay?”

PJ held her tongue, watching the scene unfold before her.

Sam and her dad had always traded sparks, their insults and friendly ribbing coming as natural to them as breathing. It was rare to see them so gentle with each other, and something deep within PJ ached at the sight of it. As she looked away to give them a semblance of privacy, her right hand immediately went to the chain around her neck.

“Hey.”

When she looked up again, Sam was gone, leaving her dad standing in an empty room, lips pressed in a thin line.

“Are you really feeling all right?”

Despite the fact that he looked obviously upset, it still humbled PJ that with her dad, it’s always concern first, reprimand second. That’s why even though she wasn’t particularly looking forward to their conversation, she still sat up and scooted to the right, tapping the now empty space next to her.

With a sigh that was just a little more dramatic than usual, her dad walked up to her and claimed his usual spot on the bed.

What followed was a long moment of silence. It wasn’t tense, almost contemplative, even, but PJ had never been the patient type. As she opened her mouth to take a crack at something that will break the ice, her dad reached into one of his jacket pockets and handed her a small, brown pouch.

PJ gaped at the package. “Alta berries?”

Her dad just raised an eyebrow in lieu of a response. Before she could stop herself, PJ was already tearing at the present, almost sobbing when she finally saw the little bastards.

“I still don’t understand why you love them so much. They’re sour _and_ bitter.”

Shrugging, PJ continued to stuff her mouth with more berries, undeterred by the look of horror and wonder in her dad’s face.

It was her Ada Teyla who introduced her to Alta berries when she was younger, when the city had first made contact with Cabezum. The Cabezan people, like many civilizations in Pegasus, considered the Ancients as holy figures. The berries were named ‘Alta’ after the Cabezan word for the color blue. Everything blue was somehow associated with the Alterans, the Ancestors.

Frankly, PJ couldn’t care less about the history of it all. She just really liked the berries.

“Where’s Torren?” she asked, reluctantly taking a breath in between bites.

“Why?”

“Bread.” She swallowed, then carefully reached inside the pouch for more. “He said he’ll bring me hommanbread.”

Her dad just shrugged, still looking at her with awe. “He said it was for dinner. And _slow down_ , will you? You’re going to choke.”

Something must’ve shown in her face, because her dad snorted and shook his head.

“Fine. By all means." He waved a magnanimous hand. "And Torren brought enough for everyone, don’t worry.”

She blinked, waiting.

“Okay, _fine_. I set aside a bag. It’s in my office.”

Appeased with the response — she knew her dad also shared her weakness for tasty, square-shaped pastries — PJ resumed with looting for more berries. She avoided three, ripe ones that almost looked purple. When she found one in a perfectly serviceable condition, she took it out and popped it in her mouth.

“How was your trip?”

Her dad continued to watch as she tried one of the ripe berries. A little too sweet, but not bad. When he realized she’d asked a question, he blinked twice before pulling himself out of a daze.

“Trip? Oh. Yes, yes. The trip." He shook his head. "It was productive. Surprisingly.” He smirked and puffed up his chest a little, looking insanely proud of himself. “Their new empress is really quite reasonable.”

PJ snorted. “She gave you everything you wanted?”

The smile dimmed a fraction. “Not nearly. But we got further than we’d hoped.”

“Let me guess,” she said, the extrasensory perception she’d developed on all things Rodney McKay slowly initializing, “their new empress had a crush on you, too?”

“I certainly hope— wait, what?” Her dad paused mid-breath, then he gaped at her like she’d just grown four more eyes. “What?”

“The Cabezan empress. Did she give you what you want because she had designs on your virtue?”

As her dad slowly lost all color on his face, PJ mentally updated her People Who Have The Hots For Dad file. It’s a tentative title. She was still waiting for Dr. Z’s suggestions.

“Guppy,” her dad started, sounding like he was talking to a small child, “she’s decades my junior. A _child_.”

“So?” PJ looked down, inside her pouch, where the only berries left were three, ripe pieces. She carefully set it next to her lamp. “Never stopped other people before.”

Because her dad was scary smart and knew her far too well for her liking, he quickly caught on. “Are you talking about _Harmony_?”

Denying would be futile, so PJ decided to face it head on. She couldn’t help it, it was a sore subject.

“What if I was?” she shot back, growing even more irritated as the confused frown on her dad’s face morphed into an amused smile. “Was she in Cabezum? Did she join your little council meeting?”

“I should hope so.” Her dad shrugged good-naturedly. “Since she’s a council member and all.”

PJ narrowed her eyes. “And? Did she give you that shy smile she still thinks is fooling anyone? Twist her hair in a dainty finger like the strumpet that she is?”

“Paula Jane McKay!” Her dad shot up from the bed like a whip. When he turned to face her, she could see his left eye twitching in an effort to stop a vein from rupturing. “What is going on with you?”

“She did, didn’t she? I told you she wants to marry you!”

If it was possible, her dad’s eyes got even wider. “Where did you get that ridiculous idea!”

“Doesn’t matter. It’s true.”

The glare sent her way was menacing, but it lost all effect a second later. Her dad visibly deflated and sat back down. “Radek is a terrible influence on you.”

Just like that, PJ’s irritation vanished like wood smoke, and she started to see the hilarity in their conversation. Before she could help herself, she managed a snort, which quickly turned into uncontrollable guffaws that had her stomach aching.

“Goodness. You’re such a goof,” her dad said, face torn between fondness and worry.

 _“You’re_ a goof,” PJ shot back between once chuckle and another.

“Oh _that’s_ mature.”

It took a moment before PJ could breathe again. When her laughter died down, her dad stopped patting her back and shot her a look of mock stern.

“Are we done stalling?” he asked, his voice a little resigned.

PJ shrugged. “Depends. Is Uncle Daniel still alive?”

Her dad also shrugged, the gesture an exact replica of hers: one shoulder deliberately higher than the other. It had been scientifically proven to look more flippant than any other kind of shrug; she and half her Level Four Psychology class had conducted a city-wide survey way back when. PJ always hated it when someone else used it against her.

“I’m gonna have to get back to you on that.”

“Daaad.”

Her whine was only met with a petulant eye roll. “Does it really matter?”

Before their conversation can devolve into a typical science trip to the mainland, complete with slap fights and double dog dares, PJ took her dad’s shoulders with both hands and held him in place.

“Dad, where’s Uncle Daniel?

With a sigh, blue eyes that mirrored her own looked up at the ceiling of her quarters. “FRAN, where’s Dr. Jackson?”

A moment later, the string of blue light that ran a circuit around where her walls met the ceiling glowed, and FRAN’s soothing voice filled PJ’s room.

“Good afternoon, Dr. McKay. Dr. Daniel Jackson is in the archives room.”

Before her dad could ask another question, PJ beat him to it with a, “And his physical condition?”

“Alive,” FRAN answered.

PJ deflated in relief. She knew that her dad would never send her Uncle Daniel to a spacegate, not really, but Rodney McKay also had a vicious, vindictive streak. That’s another thing they both shared.

“Well that’s a relief,” she said out loud, leaning back against her headboard. Much to her surprise, her dad was still not finished, and he held a finger to indicate that he’s about to burst her tiny, horribly gullible bubble.

“What’s the current protocol for Dr. Jackson, FRAN?”

The lights blinked again. “Dr. Jackson is not allowed to approach Paula Jane. His access to Paula Jane’s quarters is revoked indefinitely. An alert will be sent to Dr. Rodney McKay every time Dr. Jackson comes within a fifteen-meter radius of Paula Jane.”

This time, it was PJ’s turn to jump out of the bed. “Dad! That’s ridiculous!”

“No, it isn’t.” He looked far too unrepentant to be swayed by PJ’s usual tactics. “He pissed me off.”

“Dad. Take it back.”

Unfortunately, while her skill with Ancient technology and the city’s favoritism allowed her to snag a few files from the regular databursts, she still hadn’t managed to sway FRAN to her side, not when it was against her dad. The AI was fiercely loyal to Rodney McKay and Rodney McKay alone. Unless it’s life and death, PJ would never be able to reverse that protocol. That, plus her dad was still the city’s undisputed systems administrator. He had the keys to the kingdom, as the saying went.

“Not until he learns his lesson, guppy.”

PJ sighed, somehow even more relieved. It looked like her dad was doing it out of spite than any real anger, so it may blow over soon.

As she flopped back on the covers, she gave the man beside her what she hoped was a convincing pout.

“Are you really mad at him?”

There was a slight movement as her dad clenched his jaw, the most obvious tell that meant he was, rather uncharacteristically, choosing his words very carefully. PJ sat up, her back straightening in response.

“He should’ve known better than to put me in that situation.”

It was true, and PJ felt a pang of sympathy for her dad. Suddenly, all her apprehension was gone, replaced by a sense of weariness that matched the look her dad was sporting.

“I think this is enough," she declared, lying back down and burrowing deeper under the covers. Her voice came out a little muffled. “Stalling, I mean.”

It took a while before her dad understood what she was mumbling about. She watched as he froze, then slowly and deliberately made himself relax. “Yes. We’re going to Earth.”

Unlike when Uncle Daniel had told her, when PJ had been taken off guard and she'd thought the floor beneath her had shifted, there was only a quiet stillness now. She then realized that it was father’s confirmation she was waiting for, before she could actually make herself believe the news.

PJ felt excitement, as well as a little shame. Of course her dad was not gonna lie. Not about this. But still, she had to ask.

“I’m going too, right?”

She didn’t mean for her voice to sound small, but it came out delicate and vulnerable all the same. Her dad took her hand and squeezed, and it was only then that she noticed she was trembling.

“Don’t be ridiculous, of course you’re going. We’re taking the whole city.”

Just like that, the frequent offworld trips for the past couple of weeks, along with the visits from several council members, started to make sense. It was really happening. They’re going to Earth.

Before the surge of glee could overwhelm her, PJ made her mind latch on to other, more practical thoughts.

“Is that feasible? What about everybody else?”

Her dad frowned. “We’re still working on the details.”

Slowly, PJ lifted herself into a more comfortable sitting position. There were so many things to think about, so many variables to consider. If she was already a mess just thinking about herself in the equation, her dad had to be losing his precious mind.

“When was the last time you were on Earth?”

It was supposed to be a simple question. something casual. When her dad didn’t immediately answer, PJ’s mind clicked into place, and she felt a sharp sense of dread. Her fingers found her locket, and she fiddled with it as she made herself take the question back.

“Was it…I mean, I’m sure it was–”

“No,” her dad quickly amended when he realized what she was referring to. “No, it wasn’t. I came back one last time a little after that.”

This was news to PJ. “Really? What for?”

“It was a long time ago.”

After that, a shutter fell over his eyes, and PJ knew the topic was closed. Under a tacit agreement, they both basked in the silence that followed.

It didn't last very long, of course. Neither of them were really good at it.

“Things are gonna be different now, you know,” her dad said. “It most likely won’t be how you’ve always imagined it.”

There were many responses PJ could’ve used for that. They’ve been dancing around this for a long time, she could counter almost every argument, even in her sleep.

But her dad already had so much on his plate, and PJ wanted to give him a moment’s rest. It’s the least she could do. Forcing herself to shove so many questions at the back of her mind, PJ rolled her eyes and huffed in mock petulance. “Have a little faith in me, Rodney McKay.”

After a beat, her dad heaved a breath that sounded a lot like relief.

“Fruit of my loins,” he muttered, words tinged with a little more fondness for someone trying to project annoyance.

PJ beamed. “One and only.”

When a smirk appeared on her dad’s face, PJ realized she might’ve taken the cheeky insolence a little too far. Rodney McKay never allowed anyone to mock him, not even his own child. Most of the time, anyway.

“You do know you just missed your training with your Aldo Ronon, right?”

She felt herself gape. “Oh no.”

“Oh _yes_.”

PJ almost tipped over the edge of her bed as she scrambled to clutch at her dad’s arm.

“Dad,” she pleaded. “You have to help me.”

The benevolent twinkle in her dad’s eyes intensified. He knew just how much she dreaded her fitness training with Aldo Ronon. Whenever she missed a session because there was an emergency in the infirmary, or if she asked Dr. Z to make excuses for her, her Aldo always made her pay for it in the next scheduled training. She could still feel her thighs burning from last week’s torture.

“Stop spiraling,” her dad told her, when he finally took pity and dropped the haughty attitude. “He already knows what happened. And I’m pretty sure he has his hands full right now. Torren’s with him as we speak.”

“Whoa.” When she looked up, part of the smirk was back, but PJ could tell it was no longer at her expense. “What did Tor do now?”

Her dad shrugged. “He annoyed me this morning.”

Considering her best friend worshipped the ground her dad walked on, it must’ve been something really stupid. PJ hoped Torren was still alive to tell her all about it later.

“Do I even want to know?”

The bed dipped as her dad shifted to stand. “I’m sure he’ll tell you all about it over dinner.” He paused in the middle of smoothing down his pants to narrow his eyes. “Straight to the mess, you hear me? No detours to the archives, the infirmary, or to Lab A-3.”

PJ felt her earns burn. She never did get around to filing the paperwork for her little experiment. “Where are you going?”

The clock on her desk told her there was still over three hours before dinner.

“There are four Cabezan dignitaries waiting for me at the conference room,” her dad said, a slight twist in the corner of his mouth. “We weren’t supposed to return until tomorrow, after all.”

There was no blame in his dad’s words, just a matter-of-fact explanation. PJ didn’t exactly feel guilty, either. Just disappointed. Moments like these, when she was reminded that she had to share her dad with everyone else who needed his time and attention, were never her favorite.

“See you at dinner?”

With a soft smile, her dad leaned over and placed a kiss at the top of her head. Knowing the drill, PJ raised her chin as he ran gentle fingers down her face, from forehead to chin. It was enough to lift her spirits.

“I’ll be there,” her dad said.

When he was almost to the door, PJ called out before she could stop herself. “Hey, dad?”

He paused, barely close enough for the doors to sense his presence and slide open. His right hand was already poised to tap his comm set. “Hmm?”

PJ swallowed around the hesitation in her throat.

“Anything else you feel like telling me?”

As she waited, her heart started to speed up, almost drowning out whatever it was her dad might say in response. Fortunately for her misguided moment of foolish bravery, her dad was already too distracted to take her seriously.

“I’m sorry, guppy.” His eyes were fixed on the watch around his wrist. “I didn't catch that. You were saying?”

She felt almost ashamed at the wave of relief that bubbled up her chest. That had been close.

“Nothing," she made herself say. "I’ll see you later.”

Her dad’s gentle smile was the last thing she saw before the doors closed.

Alone again in her quarters, PJ draped herself on her bed with a heavy sigh. She might as well make the most of her rest while she still could.

Closing her eyes, PJ focused on her breathing and thought about Earth.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Chapter 3 Recap:_  
>    
>  _John goes toe to toe with Richard Woolsey, whom he hasn't spoken to since he left Atlantis fifteen years ago, for a break that was only supposed to last two weeks. Woolsey warns John that things are not what they seem in the plan to go public with the program, and that old allies and friends may need his help now more than ever._  
>    
>  _After her embarrassing fainting spell, PJ has to face her dad and clear things up about the order to bring Atlantis back to Earth. She ends up with more questions than answers, along with worries that her dad may be keeping things from her, the same way she's been keeping a secret from him._

04.1

PJ knew, in her bones, that if she ever heard the word ‘breathe’ again, she’s going to do something crazy. Like light one of her Aldo Ronon’s dreads on fire. Bet he’d like _that_.

“Líla.”

A gruff voice interrupted her thoughts, the sound heavy and persistent in the sea of darkness. Another warning.

“I know,” she snapped, struggling to keep her balance.

The next movement required a short pause, and PJ resisted the urge to crack an eye open. Not even the satisfaction of a half-glare was worth the failure to complete the set.

Instead, PJ focused on her posture, trying not to dwell on the fact that her breaths _were_ becoming more shallow and erratic as she continued. In. Out. In—

“Still not right.”

“Shut up,” she said through gritted teeth, her control slipping.

“You should—”

“I _know_.”

A pause. “ _Líla_.”

“I said I KNOW!”

The outburst messed with her center of gravity, and PJ had to put her right foot down to avoid a complete fall. Frustrated but not entirely surprised, she gave in and opened her eyes to sneer at the looming figure in front of her. There wasn’t even amusement on Aldo Ronon’s face, just confusion and the faintest hint of worry.

With an annoyed huff, PJ dropped her arms from their pathetic attempt to showcase the 23rd routine of _Sek-lo_ , one of the Satedan martial arts.

“Don’t,” she thundered, cutting off whatever Aldo Ronon might have wanted to say. “Just. Stop saying ‘breathe’, okay? I know how to breathe. I _don’t_ have trouble _breathing_.”

Much to her further irritation, Aldo Ronon just shrugged. “You do.”

“I don’t!” PJ couldn’t find it in herself to care that she just literally threw her hands up in the air. The whole thing’s embarrassing enough as it was. “My breathing is _fine_. It’s more than adequate. Excellent, even. In fact, most days breathing is all I ever seem to get _right_.”

There was a snort behind her, and PJ whirled around to find Jira a few yards away, sitting with her legs crossed on a mat she’d laid out on the sand. Her eyes were closed, but PJ could see a smirk on her blood-red lips.

“If you’re planning to say something about McKays and hot air, forget it!” PJ exclaimed, her voice echoing across the beach. “I’ve heard every single possible version, and none of them were even remotely funny!”

When PJ turned back, she could see that Aldo Ronon’s expression remained unchanged. There wasn't even so much as an eye twitch, which was his most frequent reaction to their antics.

“What?” she tried to snap again, the word only coming out whisper-thin as she started to run out of steam. The shame that fueled her irritation was almost completely gone now, but she was still not in the mood for the inevitable guilt.

Besides, Aldo Ronon was one of the few people who wouldn’t hold a moment of weakness against her. PJ just hoped that he wouldn’t use his freaky ability to make her talk about it this time. Many things have changed over the years, but that strange talent persisted.

“You’re distracted,” he replied, hands still clasped behind him.

Aldo Ronon wore his long hair in a loose ponytail, and both his shirt and pants were made out of the threads Atlantis produced out of the crimson fruits found in the forests of the mainland. It was a soft-looking and appropriate attire for their training, since it was almost impossible to do Sek-lo in leather.

“Líla,” Aldo Ronon called out, wrenching her away from her thoughts again. The grim line of his mouth told PJ that she just answered his implied question.

“You’re right,” she admitted, knowing that lying would be pointless on someone who used to swaddle her as a baby. To make it more bearable, she kept her eyes on the ocean behind Aldo Ronon, the promise of a rising star already creating a beautiful line of light across the horizon. “I’m sorry.”

Just because he was quieter about it, didn’t mean that Aldo Ronon was any less obstinate, especially when it came to people and things he cared about.

Following her gaze, he turned to look over his shoulder. Instead of the Lantean Star, however, Aldo Ronon set his eyes on the shape of their city.

“Is it Atlantis?” he asked, the worry in his voice only evident because he was not bothering to conceal it. “Are we too far?”

PJ tried not to wince. She knew that most people failed to understand her . . . peculiar relationship with the city. Some days, even her family had trouble getting the details right.

“No,” she assured him. “No, I’m fine.”

She looked away before he could turn to meet her gaze. She knew the look he’d be giving her; it was the one that told her he was seeing someone else on her face, someone that PJ could never hope to be.

Fortunately for her, there was a log conveniently placed just to Aldo Ronon’s right, and she decided that a little rest might not hurt.

“Anywhere on the planet, remember?” She waved a hand as she settled down. “We can go as far as the Southern Caves, or even the old Athosian settlement, and I’ll still be okay.”

In her sitting position, Aldo Ronon looked even more imposing. When he looked down to spear her with a searching gaze, one PJ was grateful to see held no ghosts, she wasn’t even surprised to notice that he seemed to have found what he was looking for.

“But you’re still distracted.”

There was a beat before PJ sighed. “Yeah.”

It wasn’t often that her Sek-lo lessons happened on the mainland. Usually, they’d just settle for a quiet place on the West Pier _,_ her infirmary duties leaving her with little time to travel so far from the city.

But today was different.

It was barely dawn when she’d woken up to find herself on the topmost level of the High Tower, right on the other side of the city. Terror, cold and almost familiar, gripped PJ’s entire being as she looked down to find her feet perched on the railing. The tight grip she had on a support beam had been the only thing holding her back from a thousand-foot drop. Below her, only a handful of towers were lit up, the rest of the city as asleep as she had been only a moment ago, under the impression that she was tucked in her bed, safe and warm.

She’d spent almost a full minute trying not to tremble, before she made herself step down and walk towards the nearest transporter. If she hadn’t bumped into Torren on the way back to her quarters, she might’ve thought the whole thing had been just a twisted dream.

“Do you want to stop?”

PJ shook the memory away, the move not escaping Aldo Ronon’s sharp gaze. She returned it with an even nod.

“Maybe just a short break,” she said as she stood up. “I’ll be back in a bit.”

Jira was gone from her spot, meditation never really one of her strongest suits. It took a few minutes for PJ to find her, throwing knives in the middle of the woods.

“Watch it!” she yelled when one blade embedded itself on a trunk three trees away from her position. 

“Hey!” Jira yelled back, lowering her hand.

Five strides brought PJ next to her. “I officially hate Sek-lo.”

She slumped against a sturdy Arudan trunk and listened to Jira’s snort as the other girl tucked her knives back on her belt.

“You say that every cycle,” Jira told her, moving to pull out the last blade near where PJ had stood. “Did he give up on you already?”

Everyone in the city knew about Councilman Dex and his attempts to train the Lantean children in the art of combat. His lessons with PJ, in particular, had always been a point of intrigue, as Rodney McKay’s daughter had sworn off fighting from the day she’d taken up apprenticeship under Dr. Beckett’s tutelage seven years ago. She’d only agreed to learn Sek-lo after much prodding from several persistent parties, and only because it was the single non-violent martial art that Aldo Ronon taught.

“If the Ancestors were kind, he would.”

PJ was just beginning to close her eyes to make her point when she felt a hand smack the side of her head.

“Ow!” she exclaimed, rubbing her ear but otherwise making no additional comment. She knew she deserved that for poking at Jira’s perennial faith. Eleven years and a culled planet later, Jira of Gemmalo still could not rid herself of the remnants of the zealotry that had destroyed her world.

“If the Ancestors _were_ kind,” Jira started, taking the place beside the tree in front of PJ, “they’d let you sleep through the night. Look at you, McKay. Your face is all shadows.”

Jira’s words were too close to the truth, and PJ could not stop herself from flinching.

“Hey.” It did not slip past Jira’s sharp eyes, however, and she moved closer. “What’s wrong?”

Of all PJ’s friends, it’s Torren and Jira who never had trouble understanding her struggles, her basest motivations. They were the only ones who knew what it was like to be legacies, and were aware of the frustrations she couldn’t tell even her dad. Things she might have called secrets, if she were so inclined.

At least, the ones she told them about.

 _Not my father_ , Jira would say to anyone who would call her Aldo Ronon’s child, but PJ knew her friend shared her desire to help their parents and mentors build their city’s future. It was the least they could do, after all. All of Pegasus owed the Lantean elders, and PJ would lay down her life if it meant making all of her dad’s dreams for Atlantis and her people come true.

It would be so easy, to tell Jira the full scope of her anxious thoughts, about Earth and what it meant that she would finally be able to go there. She’d been dying for someone else to know about her strange dreams, and her newest proclivity to wake up nowhere near where she’d fallen asleep, with soiled feet and no recollection of how she’d gotten there.

“It’s nothing,” PJ told her friend of many years, hoping she would believe the lie. “You’re right. I just need to rest.”

Taking a deep breath, PJ moved away from the tree and tried to fix her hair, suddenly in need of something to occupy the hands she told herself were not trembling.

“We should probably get going. I’ll tell Aldo Ronon we can just continue next week. I need to be in the infirmary early, anyway.”

When their eyes met again, Jira held her gaze for a long time.

“Sure,” her friend agreed after a long while. “Would be nice to get to the mess before everybody else.”

It was well past daybreak when they finally returned to Atlantis, Jira talking Aldo Ronon’s ear off as PJ flew them back to the city. She couldn’t help but feel the swell of gratitude in her chest when she recognized Jira’s attempts to shift the attention away from PJ. Judging by Aldo Ronon’s amused looks, he noticed it too.

When they got to the mess, it was already filled with the city’s early risers, families and expedition members alike. Almost all of the younger children greeted her with bright smiles, each one having been under her care in the months she’d been assigned to Pediatrics. Looking around, she could see all familiar faces: scientist, military, and Pegasus natives.

She wondered how much they knew, of the things that were about to change all of their lives.

For the first time in a long while, the sight of family and friends did not give her comfort.

Not in the right disposition for all the small talk a packed mess hall entailed, PJ quickly grabbed a sandwich and excused herself, ignoring the twin looks of concern Jira and Aldo Ronon sent her way.

Her first plan had been to drop by her quarters and freshen up, but the residential levels were a long way from the mess, so PJ figured she’d go to the infirmary first and log in for the day.

She was just about to walk past the recovery ward on her way to the locker room when PJ heard a familiar voice.

“…was just kidding, Carson. Don’t get your knickers in a twist.”

It was her dad, his voice exactly the way it was when he’s trying to be purposely obnoxious.

PJ stopped in the middle of the hallway, held her breath, and listened.

Her dad’s remark was followed by an outraged squeak that had an unmistakable Scottish lilt.

“The state of my knickers is none of your business, Rodney.” There was a short pause before Dr. Beckett sighed. “And will you stop taking this so lightly? If these results are correct, we don’t have much time.”

Dread, as cold as the ocean water at night, zipped down PJ’s spine. She reached out an arm to brace herself against the wall, refusing to believe that the words floating from inside the ward were about what they were most likely about.

“Of course they’re correct,” her dad countered, the comment now sounding more weary than irritated. “I wrote the program, remember?”

“I know,” Dr. Beckett said. “Which means the problem is only going to get worse, and Rodney, I am running out of options.”

There was a long moment of silence before Rodney McKay answered.

“This is it, then. The moment we’ve been waiting for.” She heard him snort. “Took it’s sweet time too, huh?”

In the end, it’s the defeated note to her dad’s voice that prompted PJ to action. Taking a deep breath, she carefully retraced her steps until she reached another corner. She made sure her own voice was steady before tapping her comm set.

“Dr. Beckett?” she called. “Are you in the infirmary? I’m sorry I’m late, but we just got back. I’m on my way as we speak.”

There’s a long moment of nothing but static before the response came.

“PJ,” Dr. Beckett answered, his voice betraying none of what PJ just heard. “Don’t worry about it, lass. I’m down here at Recovery.”

Hoping no passersby would show up and find her standing in the hallway and doing her best impression of a houseplant, PJ waited for a full minute before she went back.

“Dad?” She tried to make herself sound surprised and confused when she went inside. Her dad was standing in front of a medicine cabinet, holding what seemed to be a bottle of sumatriptan tablets. “What are you doing here? Everything all right?”

It hurt her to see the casual smile on her dad’s face, an acute pain somewhere at the center of her breastbone, making her a little breathless. If she didn’t know better, she wouldn’t suspect anything at all.

“I ran out of vitamins.” He shot her a little smirk, shaking the white bottle like it was filled with candy. “Wanted to make sure Carson wasn’t holding out on me. What about you, did you guys just finish? Did Ronon kick your ass?”

PJ made herself nod, swallowing around the lump in her throat.

“Yeah,” she answered. “We just got back. He’s in mess with Jira right now.” Hearing the rest of the question, PJ shot her dad a quick glare. “And no, dad. There was no ass kicking. Sek-lo does _not_ advocate ass-kicking of _any_ kind.”

Before he could defend himself, her dad’s gaze zeroed in on the sandwich she had on her left hand, his narrowed eyes pinning PJ to her spot when he looked up.

“Is that supposed to be your breakfast?”

PJ blinked. “...No?”

“Try again, guppy.”

Out of the corner of her right eye, PJ saw Dr. Beckett rolling his eyes.

“No,” she repeated, this time with more conviction. “But I was scheduled to be on duty twenty minutes ago, so three servings of mac and cheese will just have to wait.”

Apparently, it was the wrong thing to say, because her dad’s eyes lit up like two active stargates.

“Right! There’s mac and cheese today.” He pocketed the tablets and rubbed his hands together. “I haven’t had them in _ages_. Come on, then. Let’s feed you.”

PJ was quick enough to dodge her dad’s hand when it looked like he was about to grab her by the _scruff of her neck._

“Dad!” She almost tripped as she stepped aside. “I just _got_ here.”

“It’s quite all right,” she heard Dr. Beckett say over the sound of her dad’s tutting. “It’s been a quiet week, anyway. I’ll radio Marie and tell her to expect you in an hour.”

“What?” She turned to face her boss, her mouth hanging open. “But— that’s _nepotism!”_

It was a tactical error, taking her eyes off her dad. Before PJ knew it, she was being dragged out of the ward.

“Yes, yes, we’re tyrants with special breakfast privileges. Get over it.” Her dad’s grip was tight, and PJ felt her face starting to burn with shame. “Thanks, Carson. I’ll have her back in two hours.”

“I said _one_ , Rodney.”

“Two and a half. Got it.”

The last thing she saw was Dr. Beckett picking up a data pad, his face turning wistful, then grim, before the doors slid shut. 

* * *

04.2

Looking at O’Neill, whose tired eyes were still sharp with secrets, and who wore his dress uniform like it was made of scales, John wondered how he’d ever thought the man was the paragon of integrity, service, and excellence.

“Leak, huh?” he managed to spit out. “Haven’t heard _that_ one before.”

O’Neill just shrugged off the pointed remark, as flippant as he’d always been the whole time John’s known him.

“You know us,” O'Neill said, loosening his tie and grabbing a chair in one fluid move, an impressive display of motion economy that John knew he was never going to achieve. “We like to keep things interesting around here.”

It’s absurd, the way his former commanding officer settled down across from him like they were just old pals catching up. It made John’s right eye twitch as he returned to his own seat.

“Lemme guess. You made Mitchell hire another documentary team.” John paused, not completely sure how far he’s willing to take this. The moment of hesitation reminded him of the look on Richard’s face, and it was enough to make the decision for him. He latched onto the exposed bruise and pressed hard. “The last time that happened wasn’t exactly a field day, if my memory serves me right.”

To John’s irritation, the comment bounced off O’Neill like the proverbial quarter.

“I can’t _make_ Mitchell do anything,” he told John, waving a weathered hand. “Retired, remember? It’s his show now.”

John snorted, not the least bit convinced. “Could’ve fooled me.”

They both knew that John’s orders and assignments for the past ten years never reached Cam’s table.

“Well.” O’Neill offered another half-shrug. “It’s not my fault that kind of thing doesn’t tend to stick in this place.”

The ease, the casual way the man tossed replies like they were talking about football over a BBQ grill, made John feel stupid. Like he was green and clueless, reverted back to that fateful day when he’d sat on the right chair at the right moment, surrounded by all the right people.

He shifted in his seat and tried to remember that he’d decked said man the last time they’d seen each other.

“So what’s this all about?” John asked, trying his best not to grind all his teeth to dust. “And why is Richard Woolsey under the impression that I want anything to do with it?”

O’Neil tapped his fingers on the table, making a production of looking all over the conference room.

“Oh, you know. The usual. Little bit of this, little bit of that.”

“And the media leak?” John pressed, because he wanted at least _some_ truth from the man.

After a beat, O’Neill finally met his eyes.

“Another reporter with too much time on their hands,” the former general shared, voice tight. “We had to deal with it fast before it got ugly.”

It’s the first time that O’Neill alluded to anything resembling direct involvement to the whole thing, something that might explain why he was standing like a creepy stalker on the other side of the glass, listening to his former subordinates talk about the fate of the world.

John found himself sitting up straighter.

“So what, you’re telling me you couldn’t put a stop to it without pulling the whole curtain down?” He scoffed. “I thought we had an SOP for nosy civilians around here.”

This time, John got a brief glare for this troubles. It was gone as soon as it came, but it had been there.

“What are you saying, _General_?” O’Neill drawled, lounging in his seat in a manner unlike someone his age and station. Not for the first time, John wondered what it would’ve been like to play chess across the man. Fortunately for both of them, the world had never given them that opportunity. “Think you could’ve done better?”

Unlike his conversation with Woolsey, John found it both harder and easier to deal with Jack O'Neill when it came to things like this. Despite every attempt not to lose ground and reveal too much, he knew that he and Richard were on the same side. Whatever might happen, whoever might be in charge, they would always be rooting for the same team. He’d come to realize that a long time ago.

With O’Neill, however, John could never fully tell. He’d spent the better part of two decades trying to determine what game the man was playing, and he always came back from every attempt with more questions than answers.

“Oh no. Not at all.” John allowed his shoulders to relax as he slowly sat back, careful to mirror the other man’s posture _just_ right. “I couldn’t have done it better myself.”

O’Neill raised a single, grey eyebrow. “Is that so.”

“Oh yeah,” John confirmed with a nod. For the briefest of moments, the dread brought by Cam’s news was replaced by glee at finally, _finally,_ finding a chink in The Great Jack O’Neill’s armor. It was beginning to make itself known, with the way the man stilled at John’s words. He was on to something, John could tell, and for now, nothing else mattered. “Wouldn’t have thought about it if I tried.”

There’s a long pause, one they spent just looking at each other, sizing the other up. When O’Neill gave him a closed-lip smile, barely holding himself back from baring his teeth, John knew he had him. “If you have a point, I suggest you get to it, Sheppard.”

It’s the closest thing to an admission John’s ever going to get, but it still surprised him how unprepared he was for it.

_Work for me, John. I’ll give you that purpose._

After his brief stint at Sheppard Equities, which proved to be a mistake of epic proportions, John had been miserable and directionless. The consequences of his decision had caught up with him, and he’d been at the end of his rope.

It‘d been O’Neill who showed up in Austin that fateful morning, who’d made himself a cup of coffee in the kitchen of John’s childhood home. After lunch, they’d settled in the veranda, and he’d made John an offer that had been impossible to refuse.

Four months later, John was back in active duty.

“Is this it, Jack?” He thought about Germany. London. Hell, the trip to Russia that had taken him forever to agree to. John thought about a decade in the shadows, and the silver stars he’d been given despite all the politicking that practically made him SGC persona non grata. “Is this your big plan? The grand finale?”

Something flickered in Jack’s weary eyes, and John’s breath caught with it.

Before his questions could be answered, however, the entire conference room was suddenly awash with red light, the familiar blare of emergency klaxons ringing against their ears.

“What in the—“

John’s exclaim was cut off the by the doors being flung open, revealing Sergeant Baxter’s stricken face.

“Sir,” she gasped out, eyes darting between John and O’Neill. There was no time to remind her that the other man was _retired, dammit_ , so he made a noise that prompted her to take a breath and compose herself.

“What is it?”

Allison swallowed, the panic in her eyes reminding John just how young she really was.

“It— it’s General Mitchell.”

Whatever else Baxter had to say got lost in the wind as John moved. He didn’t even have time to regret taking off before hearing the rest of the Sergeant’s report because the commotion he was greeted with was enough to tell him where he needed to go.

John couldn’t remember how long it was until he got out of the Mountain and into the parking lot. He stared, too stunned to do much of anything for the first few seconds. After a beat, he finally saw the center of the chaos, watched as Cam’s blue truck was swallowed in flames, thick, dark smoke rising up to the sky.

For one, terrifying moment, John’s entire body was frozen in place.

_John, please. Just go. You can still make it._

_Colonel, we have to go!_

“Sheppard!”

O’Neill’s shout jolted John back to the present, the memory of burning wood and prickling heat replaced by the very real smell of gas and sun-soaked tarmac.

Before reason could stop him, John moved and ran for the burning car.

“SHEPPARD, NO!”

The last thing he heard was the sound of a baby crying before a strong pulse sent John flying across the parking lot, the freefall as familiar as his own breathing. He didn’t even remember landing, just the sweet embrace of darkness as the world around him flickered into nothingness.

_Start from beginning, Colonel. You said there was an agreement._

_There’s was nothing we could do, sir._

_Where is he?_

_Dammit, Sheppard! You’ll tear your stitches!_

_What happened, John?_

When John woke up, it was to bright lights and the distinct smell of strawberry shampoo.

“He’s awake!”

Someone tugged at the sheets John knew was draped over his legs, but he couldn’t see who it was behind closed eyelids, the harsh glare of fluorescent making his eyes water.

“Bean, don’t _shout_.” someone hissed back.

The tugging persisted. “Matty! Matty! He’s awake!”

Something small and delicate clutched John’s left hand, the one tucked to his side, and he heard soft murmuring next to his ear.

“Open your eyes, silly. You have to open your eyes.”

While he still couldn’t pin down the sweet, careful voice, John knew that he had no defense against commands like that. In contrast with his better judgment, John slowly opened his eyes. When they finally adjusted to the brightness, he found himself staring at a pair of twinkling, hazel orbs, very much like his own.

“Hi.”

Beatrice Anne Sheppard beamed at him from her place next to the bed, and she squeezed the fingers that she had clutched on her tiny hands.

“Hey, sweetie,” John managed to whisper.

They grinned at each other for a long moment before the door to his room opened, Matthew walking in with who John assumed was his attending physician.

What followed was a series of tests and questions that took away what little warmth and comfort John received from being greeted by Bean’s smiling face. Aware that the kids were in the room and observing the proceedings, John submitted himself to their ministrations with as much grace as he could muster.

After almost an hour, the doctor and nurse were gone, leaving John alone with Matthew and Bean.

“What are you guys doing here?” he asked, unable to stop his voice from being pitched a little higher.

According to Dr. Laurence, John was in Fort Carson, and while not exactly oceans away, it was definitely not in Texas, which was where the kids were supposed to be.

“Alberta’s with us,” Matthew supplied, one of his hands on his sister’s shoulder as they hovered near the foot of the bed. “She went out to get lunch.”

With the doctor gone, John could finally take a good look at Matthew. The kid had grown a couple of inches since the last time John had seen him, almost a year ago. His voice had also gotten deeper.

“Hi, kid.”

Matty shot him one of his small, measured smiles. “Hi, Uncle John.”

“Hi, Uncle John,” echoed Bean, who took the exchange of greetings as her cue to reclaim her spot beside him. “You’re awake now.”

John lifted a hand to tease her little nose. “Yes, I am. Thanks to you.”

Bean’s proud grin quickly turned into a frown, as though she was remembering something.

“You were asleep for a long time,” she told him. “Matty was worried.”

Over Bean’s shoulder, John met Matthew’s eyes.

Before he could say anything else, however, the door opened again, this time revealing someone who was definitely not John’s doctor.

“General,” greeted Thomas Pullman, who strode into John’s hospital room wearing civilian clothes.

John felt himself gape, though whether it was for the uncharacteristic acknowledgment of his rank or the civvies, he wasn’t quite sure. 

“Colonel,” John managed after an embarrassingly long while.

“I’m glad you’re awake,” Pullman shared, even sounding sincere that it continued to throw John off. “There is much we have to discuss.”

The statement was loaded with so much meaning that it made John pause. He allowed himself a moment to look at Pullman, _really_ look at him.

There were shadows under the Colonel’s eyes, the kind that not even a good night’s sleep could cure. He’s sporting a fresh cut on his jaw, and even from his position on the bed, John could see the way the man was favoring his left leg.

Just like that, John remembered everything. The explosion. The truck on fire. _Cam_.

He was suddenly sitting up so fast there was no doubt he’d torn a few stitches.

“Cam,” John gasped, smelling smoke with every breath he took. “He— there was a bomb, and, his truck was, it was—”

He would’ve said more if it weren’t for the soft whimper from across the room. When John turned, he saw Bean holding on to her brother so hard she was shaking.

“We better look for Alberta,” said Matthew, who returned John’s gaze with a sharp nod. “She probably took a wrong turn and got lost.”

Not for the first time, John felt grateful for his nephew.

“Where’s Cam?” he asked Pullman when the door closed behind the kids. “And what the hell just happened?”

The doctor had told him that he’d been unconscious for three days. John was more than aware just how much shit could happen in three days.

“Thomas,” he pressed when the Colonel refused to meet his eyes, let alone answer his questions. “Now’s not the time for your bullshit. Answer me. Where the hell is Mitchell?”

When Pullman finally looked John in the eye, Woolsey’s words rang against his ears.

_John, I want you to be prepared._

“The General’s dead, Sheppard.”


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Chapter 4 Recap:_  
>    
>  _PJ's fails to concentrate during her training with her Aldo Ronon, all thanks to a new proclivity for dangerous sleepwalking. She also overhears her dad and her mentor, Dr. Carson Beckett, discussing a secret they aren't aware she already knows._  
>    
>  _Back at the SGC, John's stiff reunion with Jack O'Neill is cut short when a bomb explosion targets SGC Commander Cameron Mitchell. He wakes up in a military hospital three days later, to a surprise visit from his nice and nephew, along with news that Mitchell is dead._

05.1

The swivel chair made a sharp, keening sound under the extra weight. For half a second, it filled the empty office, seeming to bounce against the four walls of the bleak-looking room.

Finally settled in his seat, Major General John E. Sheppard didn’t even flinch.

_He told me to give it to you when the time comes._

John stared at the package long and hard. He stared until his eyes began to cross, and then he stared some more. Unsurprisingly, it didn’t seem to change, give him more clues, or answer any of his damn questions. It stubbornly stayed exactly the way Carolyn had described it to him after the service: a black, leather box with silver hinges, barely half the size of a shoebox.

Leaning back with a frustrated huff, John tugged at the collar of his itchy dress blues and closed his eyes.

The funeral service for Lieutenant General Cameron Mitchell had been a solemn but telling affair. All the prep for the declassification project aside, Cam’s death was the first major event in the SGC in a long time, and it had been evident in the faces of the program’s younger members that they were unaccustomed to things going completely off script. Even Pullman, who despite his faults and misguided views on chain of command and what mattered less compared to it was a decent officer, couldn’t quite grasp the entire picture. It had been hard not to see so many people so clearly in way over their heads. Carolyn Lam, whom John hadn’t seen in just as long, had seemed to have come to the same conclusion, if her somber expression while looking at personnel she probably hadn’t recognized was anything to go by. They’d both stood side by side the entire time, stiff with grief and a perverse kind of understanding. John and Carolyn had been the only two people in that gate room who were familiar with the entire tableau. Relics of the old, as it were.

Jack O’Neill and Richard Woolsey had been nowhere in sight, after all.

When the service ended and the soldiers began filing out, back to their posts, Carolyn had taken him by the elbow and led him to a deserted corner near the infirmary, imperious and no-nonsense the way only medics were capable of being. With a short explanation that had been the only thing to betray her anguish, she’d given him instructions and access to a safety deposit box in Denver, where John had found Cam’s last gift to him. The same one that continued to mock him now.

“General?”

He looked up just in time to see the strips of light on either side of his door flash. Sparing a moment to wistfully remember the old radio they’d taken from him the day before, John tapped the small device attached to the side of his neck and briefly wondered if Baxter would now be a constant voice in his ears for the foreseeable future.

“Sergeant,” he greeted jovially. “Lovely to hear your voice. Although I can’t say I’m all that surprised.”

If it were any other day, John might’ve said more, maybe even tried to sound more flippant or sarcastic, but then he recalled the look on Allison Baxter’s face when the bugler started playing the Taps, and he decided to hold his tongue.

“It could be because we have a scheduled meeting, General.” The matter-of-fact response, now directed straight to his ears instead of through the office speakers, startled a laugh out of John. “May I come in, sir?”

The Sergeant’s voice had the usual even and respectful quality to it, like it was just an ordinary day and her orders were yet again to play nice with the high-ranking officer everybody hated just until her shift was over. John surprised himself by feeling a distant sort of pride.

“Come on in,” he called out, acquiescing with little protest.

By the time Baxter appeared, John had already tucked Cam’s box inside one of the desk drawers. He’d deal with it later.

“So,” he began, interlocking his fingers and placing them on the table, on top of his shiny data pad, “what can I do for you today, Baxter?”

Despite the snappy and determined words that had come out of the PA system, Baxter looked like crap.

Her short, auburn hair was still kept neat and out of her face, and her uniform had not a single visible wrinkle, but upon closer inspection, John could see the careful way she held herself, like the next strong breeze might just succeed in knocking her off her feet. Baxter also held her data pad in a tight grip, right against her thigh, and the office lights did wonders to the bags under her dimmed, gray eyes.

“At ease, Sergeant,” John finally felt inclined to say, when Baxter just blinked at his question. He sighed when the kid stayed rooted to her spot nonetheless. “For god’s sake, Baxter, take a seat before you keel over.”

As though being admonished snapped her back to the present, Baxter’s shoulders jerked and she quickly grabbed the nearest chair, her pale cheeks now stained pink.

John magnanimously gave her a full minute to recover before he considered it safe to speak again.

“I understand you had something important to discuss with me?”

Contrary to their earlier exchange, John did, in fact, know about the meeting. Pullman had told him about it at the gate room, an hour before the ceremony. The Colonel had found him alone, staring at the stargate like an idiot. Fortunately, the other man hadn’t made any comment, and to save face, John had asked about the limp. Pullman had retaliated by listing John’s new administrative duties. Twice.

Baxter nodded. “Yes, sir.”

John motioned for her to continue, but instead of going straight to the details like he’d expected her to, the Sergeant’s face twisted into a shape that made her look constipated and out of breath at the same time.

“Sergeant,” he urged, when the silence started to become unnerving even for John. “You were saying?”

A few more seconds passed with Baxter’s hard eyes fixed on something behind John. He knew exactly what she must be seeing, and he wondered if he should tell her that she was never going to find neither courage nor answers in the drab, gray walls of his office.

“Before anything else,” Allison started, finally meeting John’s gaze, “I would like to offer my deepest sympathies. I heard you were close with the General.”

Of all the things John had expected for Baxter to lead with, it wasn’t what he’d just heard. Like a kick to the solar plexus, all the air got sucked out of him, and his grip on one of the chair’s armrests turned knuckle-white.

“I was there when you tried to save him, sir.” The Sergeant’s words sounded muted and faraway, and it took all of John’s strength to come back to himself, to dispel the smell of smoke that came with unbidden memories. “I know you did everything you could.”

_There was nothing else you could’ve done, Colonel._

_It was not your fault, John. What can we do to make you believe that?_

With a jerk he knew Baxter couldn’t possibly have missed, John shook the echoes away.

“The agenda, Sergeant.” His words came out more cold than he would’ve liked, and but it did the trick. The pity in Baxter’s eyes was gone, replaced by the only thing he could deal with at the moment: a soldier’s attention. “For this meeting?”

Sitting up straight, Baxter took a moment to compose herself before booting up the data pad she’d placed on the table.

The meeting lasted for almost two hours, time John had spent wishing he had ass made of trinium. Contrary to popular belief, he was perfectly capable of sitting still for more than five minutes at a time, especially under duress. Baxter, after gathering her wits enough to start the ball rolling, had immediately begun systematically outlining anything and everything clueless generals who’d been away for a long time were required to know. Despite her stature and almost-elfin features, the Sergeant had looked imposing as she talked, and John’d been a little scared to interrupt her with his usual bullshit, so he’d kept his fidgeting to a minimum.

Unlike all the other briefings he’d participated in for the last decade and a half, however, the meeting had actually been packed with useful information. Baxter had even been gracious enough to provide the necessary background details that John, with his precarious position in the SGC, would not be privy to. Her efficiency had been refreshing, if a little frightening.

“Wait,” John interrupted, brain finally catching up to Baxter’s rapid-fire report. “How many gate teams did you say we have again?”

There was a pause. “I didn’t, sir.”

John wrenched his eyes away from a suspicious stain on his desk and narrowed them at the Sergeant, who just blinked. “Huh?”

“I never mentioned the number of gate teams,” she replied, unperturbed.

Slowly, and with much difficulty courtesy of a fresh scapula fracture, John turned his head to look at his right shoulder. Satisfied, he turned to look at the other. Apparently, his stars were still present and accounted for. There was still a good chance that he hadn’t hallucinated the promotions, dubious and undeserved as they’d been. John had no love for his rank and what it represented, but it was damn useful at times. O’Neill had been right about that.

Looking back at Baxter, John found her watching him with a raised eyebrow, clearly not intimidated. He felt himself frown, wondering if that was better or worse than flustered and reluctant obedience.

He settled for a loud sigh. “Then maybe it’s time you did, yeah? Great. So. Gate teams?”

After a beat, the Sergeant went back to her data pad, though not without a small quirk of her lips that John thought was just unfair.

“We currently have 13 gate teams,” she finally supplied. “Two have members on medical leave, and one has been on stand-down for over a week.”

John considered the intel. “And apart from those three, the rest have been active before the suspension orders?”

Baxter nodded. “Yes, sir. We’ve been sending out two teams at a time for the past six months. It’s the most action the base has seen in years.”

A faint blush colored the Sergeant’s face at her last sentence, but John decided to ignore it. There was something about the statement that didn’t sit right with him.

“What were the missions’ objectives, sergeant?”

It took a long moment before Baxter answered, and judging by the tone of her voice when she did, she was more confused than hesitant.

“Teams were deployed to meet with all of our offworld allies. They all had to be consulted regarding the declassification project. It involved a lot of ceremonies and official inquisition procedures, so it took a while.”

For a second, John’s breath caught painfully in his throat. He clutched the armrests with both hands and in horror, realized that the sharp sensation in his chest felt a lot like longing.

It had been a decade and a half since he’d been anywhere but Earth, after all.

Fortunately for John, the Sergeant continued talking. He forced himself to ease his grip on the chair and allowed Baxter’s words to tide him back.

“During the last meeting the General and Colonel Pullman had with the president, most of our allies have already pledged their support.”

John had been nodding along, carefully getting his lungs back in working order without interrupting, when the realization dawned on him.

“Wait a minute,” he snapped, pointing and shaking an index finger at a baffled Baxter. “Are you saying everybody has known about the plan to go public this whole time?”

The looks on the faces of everyone in the meeting now made sense. When Cam had dropped the bomb on John, it had only been him who took it as hard as he did. Around the table, he remembered seeing disbelief, even suspicion, but there hadn’t been much surprise.

“Yes, sir.”

“And I was kept out of the loop because…?”

This time, the Sergeant didn’t bother hiding her insolence. Despite himself, John approved.

“All due respect, sir, but— well, you haven’t exactly been around lately. Or ever, actually. I’m sure the General thought you would learn about it at the right time.”

Baxter didn’t even look self-satisfied, and that took the wind out of John’s sails. Surely not for the last time, his mind went back to the package sitting inside his drawer, and he wished like hell that Cam was still alive to explain himself.

“So,” John made himself lean back, knowing full well that wishful thinking never did anyone any good, “anybody ever tell you people don’t like a smartass, Baxter?”

The Sergeant’s eyes lit up, and John was once again reminded of just how young she was.

“Just the ones who can’t ever hope to be one, General.”

John had just enough sense to disguise his snort as a cough, and he waved the cheeky comment with a dismissive hand. Baxter’s pleased smirk, however, told him he hadn’t been successful.

“Are we done here, Sergeant? Anything else Pullman thinks I should know?”

He had to give Baxter credit; she sobered up pretty quick and went back to business in record time. After a minute of consulting her notes, she nodded to herself.

“That’s about the bulk of it, sir. Just two more things, and we’re done.”

His scowl was met with an eye roll, and John wondered again just where he went wrong, and if it was already too late for him to remind Baxter that he was, in fact, a dangerous man.

“Sergeant…”

“Right,” she cut in, looking mildly apologetic, “With your official transfer to Stargate Command full duty, you’re going to need an executive assistant. This is protocol and non-negotiable, sir.” At this, Baxter paused to shoot him a pointed look. “I’ve already sent you the files of five candidates, all recommendations by Colonel Pullman. You can check them the moment you decide to open your data pad.”

John glared right back, gingerly pulling his own device closer to his side of the table.

“If this is Pullman’s idea of a joke, you can come clean now and I might consider sparing your life.”

“That’s a good one, sir.”

“An executive assistant,” he muttered, powering his data pad and nearly going blind when the screen glowed, showing the SGC logo in the middle of a stark white background. “Any chance your file is one of the five?”

He didn’t need to look at Baxter to picture the expression on her face. “With respect, sir?”

“Not a snowball’s chance in hell?”

“Exactly, sir.”

Much to John’s annoyance, the Sergeant remained silent the whole time he spent perusing the files she’d sent him. He even managed to take the whole thing seriously, because while Thomas Pullman was a blowhard, he knew how to pick good officers. The shortlist included no one John knew, which was not a surprise. All Air Force, too, and each one young but promising.

“How about Kingston, is he qualified?”

For the first time since he’d cut off her condolences, Baxter looked stunned. “Sir?”

“Lieutenant E. Kingston? He’s the officer who picked me up from the airport.”

It was brief, Baxter’s hesitation, but John caught it nonetheless. “He wasn’t recommended by Colonel Pullman, sir.”

“I can see that,” John said. “I’d like a copy of his file, anyway. All due respect to your Colonel, but if he wants me to have a secretary, I’d like to decide for myself.”

With visible reluctance, Baxter nodded and turned to her data pad. She lasted a full minute before giving him a pleading look.

“I really don’t think Kingston is qualified for the position, General.”

John raised an eyebrow. “Care to share why?”

“The gate team that was on stand-down? He was a member, sir. Kingston disobeyed a direct order during a mission, and it led to his Team Leader losing a leg. It’s not yet official, but they said the brass will be sending him for court martial soon.”

Something crystallized in John’s gut, and his regard for Baxter sank like stone.

Sitting up straight, he powered down his data pad and set it on the desk. “I’m guessing the orders would’ve ended up with no one to lose any leg at all, weren’t they?”

“Sir—”

“Just send me his jacket, Sergeant.”

Baxter stiffened before jerking her head in deference. “Yes, sir.”

With a rigid salute that John barely returned, the Sergeant stood up and made a beeline for the door. Before she could step out, however, John called out one last time.

“Sergeant.”

Baxter paused mid-stride and turned around, looking unsure. “Sir?”

John told himself it was a legitimate concern and not one borne out of guilt for how quickly the kid’s face had fallen at his dismissal.

“You said two more things,” he reminded her. “What was the last one?”

The question clearly took Baxter off guard, and she looked sheepish as she answered. John could admit that he felt a little better, then.

“It’s about General Carter, sir.” The sergeant offered a closed-lip smile, which in no way hid the awe in her eyes. “She’s scheduled to arrive tomorrow.”

* * *

05.2

A vacuum-like sound jerked PJ back to the present, making her grip the edge of the sink as she waited for her heart to stop racing.

It took a while, long after water had stopped trickling from the faucet. With a heavy sigh, she wondered how long she’d zone out this time, enough that the water-saving mechanism managed to engage.

“Jira was right.”

PJ nearly jumped at the voice, and she looked up to find Torren's reflection smirking at her. He seemed annoyingly healthy and well-rested, standing in front of a closed door that she’d once again failed to hear opening.

Over her shoulder, Torren dropped the smirk and frowned.

“She said you looked like a silver maiden,” he continued, stepping further inside the room until he was leaning on the sink, right next to her. “I thought she just wanted me to stop complaining about the breakfast soup.”

In the mirror, their faces almost took up the entire frame. PJ’s pale skin was a stark contract to her best friend’s darker complexion, and his eyes also lacked the bags that insisted on weighing hers down.

“Silver maiden?” she asked in a flat voice. PJ told herself that the lack of verve was deliberate and not a product of bone-weary exhaustion.

Beside her, Torren looked unimpressed.

“Silver maiden,” he repeated. “A phantom that haunted the temples of many great Gemmalan cities. It was said to resemble the form of a woman, floating a foot above the ground and wearing a robe the color of milk. She would appear to priests who were nearing the end of their days.”

PJ’s snort was weak, but it got the point across. “You mean they’re ghosts of the young women these so-called priests had kidnapped and sacrificed to their gods? Who then came back to take their revenge?”

Torren blinked. “That was not part of Jira’s story.”

“I extrapolated.” PJ shrugged.

They spent the next moment just staring at each other’s reflections, lapsing into a silence that would’ve been normal if it weren’t for the fact that PJ looked ready to pass out and Torren was just waiting to carry her back to the infirmary she’d just come out of.

“I just need to sleep,” she finally admitted, answering Torren’s unspoken question.

“No one is stopping you, Peej.”

PJ’s head was bent so Torren would not see her grimace.

“It’s the middle of the day, you goof.” Her hands were now barely damp, but a hand towel might stop her from fidgeting. Pushing herself off the sink, she walked towards her locker. “And Dr. Beckett needs my help later. Two of the Todishan children who’d come back from a trip to M2R- 336 came down with scarlet fever. He needs an extra pair of hands to prep some meds.”

When she decided that her fingers couldn’t get any drier, PJ tossed the towel back inside her locker with a huff. It was the kind of thing done by the slob she’d sworn to her dad she wasn’t, but she was too tired to care.

Making a mental note to clean the mess as soon as she could think straight again, it was only when PJ shut the locker door that she noticed Torren was talking again.

“Wait, what did you say? Command meeting?”

Torren tilted his head, his way of saying he knew she hadn’t been listening attentively and he would not repeat himself. It was such an Emmagan move that PJ couldn’t find it in her to be irritated.

“Torren, there’s no command meeting today.” The world tipped a little to the right when PJ lowered herself to one of the benches and bent down to take off her scrub shoes. It got even worse when Torren sat next to her, shaking the bench so hard something inside her head rattled. “There wasn’t anything on the schedule.”

The second shoe was already off when she realized her mistake.

Watching from the corner of her eye, PJ sighed in relief when she saw that Torren was not paying enough attention to point out that she wasn’t supposed to know about command meeting schedules at all.

“There will be one after lunch,” he explained, almost absentmindedly. A scowl was beginning to form on his face. “Dr. McKay had it set just this morning.”

PJ froze in the middle of tying the laces of her boots, finally understanding the gravity of what Torren was saying.

“Where’d you hear about that?” Despite Torren’s job as her dad’s aide, he also tended to hear about command meetings only after the fact.

“Lt. Callen mentioned it during breakfast. She seemed to be under the impression that information acquired by illicit means is something to boast about.”

The heel of her left boot struck the floor hard, making PJ hiss in pain.

“Sorry. I slipped.” She quickly finished the last knot before giving Torren her full attention. “Callen’s full of shit, you know that.”

Marina Callen was Rodney McKay’s other administrative assistant and Torren Emmagan’s sworn arch-nemesis. Over a decade older than PJ, Callen had been in Atlantis for more than a year, and both Torren and Jira had hated the woman’s guts for just as long.

“I know,” Torren said. “But she was also right. I asked Evan, and he did not deny it.”

“Great,” she muttered, a little offended at having been the last to hear about it. “And will you stop calling the Colonel that? It’s really getting old.”

Wrenched from his brooding, Torren flashed her a shit-eating grin.

“So is the hero worship,” he told her. “He is courting my mother, Peej. I can call him anything I want.” Then his face softened. “You are aware he’s not the one in your stories, right?”

The jab struck a nerve, and PJ shoved Torren hard enough to bruise. “I’m not an idiot.”

Surprisingly, Torren left it at that. It meant, however, that he was back to skulking about dark-haired Marine officers.

“I just cannot help but think Lt. Callen knows something I do not. She has been smug for days now, and I hate not knowing the reason why.”

This time, the realization came to PJ slowly.

She watched Torren’s faraway look with dread settling at the pit of her stomach. The locker room always ran hot, but goosebumps prickled the skin on both her arms as she went through their entire conversation. There was only ever one reason for her dad to call a command meeting at such short notice. With everything else that’d been happening, she’d completely forgotten that Torren, along with the rest of Atlantis, had yet to know about the trip to Earth.

“Peej?”

PJ averted her gaze, shame making her tongue thick and heavy. When she shored up enough courage to conjure a tired smile, she turned to her best friend and prepared to lie.

“I’m sure it’s nothing, Tor. Callen’s just being her usual kiss-ass self.” She stood up and grabbed a duffel bag from an overhead cabinet with the letters _PJM_ on it. “Now why don’t you tell me all about what else I missed at breakfast and we’ll see if Jira’s in the mess already.”

With a sigh that didn’t really sound at all convincing, Torren stood up and allowed PJ to drag him out of the locker room.

Despite their plans, lunch was quick and quiet with Torren being summoned to the archives by a colleague and Jira not answering her comm set. After forcing herself to swallow down enough food to stave off ulcer, PJ grabbed a mixed fruit bar and headed for her quarters.

“Huh.”

The transporter doors opened to a hallway that was definitely not in the South-East residential block.

Stepping out, it took her a few seconds to discover that she was sent to an area she didn’t recognize. With measured movements, she adjusted the strap of her bag and called out to the empty space.

“FRAN?”

There was no response, though PJ wasn’t really expecting one. FRAN’s program only ran through the places her dad frequented. He’d said something about power requirements and privacy, and it had taken her years to appreciate that fact.

“FRAN?” she repeated, just for good measure. Fishing out the scanner she always carried with her, PJ adjusted the settings a bit before the screen told her where she was: the Control Tower.

“Hello?” She tapped her comm set only to hear dead air.

Beginning to get worried, she was just about to turn around and head straight back to the transporter when the lights at the end of the hallway lit up. Almost immediately, PJ felt her skin come alive. The brightened corner beckoned to her, the same way every single Ancient tech had always done, and she was helpless to do anything but follow.

“Hello?”

When she reached the end, PJ heard a hissing sound, and without prompting, a wall panel slid open, revealing a small space twice the size of a broom closet. Dropping her bag on the floor, she stepped inside.

“What the —”

As soon as she snapped out of the fugue that had her _walking into_ _a strange room_ , PJ had just enough time to draw breath when the panel slid shut, engulfing her in darkness. She scrambled for the device clutched in her left hand as the entire compartment began to shake, sending her bumping from one side to another. It was only when the shaking stopped that PJ began to fully panic. The scanner was as dead as her comm set, she couldn't see _anything_ , and she had no idea just where in the bowels of the central tower the transporter had taken her. PJ opened her mouth to yell when something bright flickered in front of her, and she found herself staring at her dad’s face.

“That’s enough, Radek.”

The image was so large that she immediately took a step back. It didn’t take her very far, but the screen seemed to have registered her distress. Slowly, the feed zoomed out, showing her a full view of the Atlantis conference room.

“But Rodney, there is—”

“I said that’s enough.”

The feed remained at the same angle even as PJ watched Dr. Z take his seat with a scowl. Easing her grip on the scanner, she felt the exact moment her curiosity won over her fear.

Pushing her body off the wall, PJ took a step forward and prepared to watch.

“I’m sure we all understood what Dr. Zelenka was trying to say,” her dad went on, his eyes fixed on a data pad in front of him. After a beat, he looked up and gave the man in question a sharp nod. “Just send the file to me, Radek. I’ll look over it tonight.”

PJ tore her gaze away from the head of the table just in time to catch their Chief Scientist’s shoulders hunch in defeat. To Dr. Z’s right sat Colonel Lorne, who kept his own gaze on her dad. On the other side, PJ could see Aldo Ronon. Unlike the Colonel, he was sprawled over his chair in a manner that would’ve looked undignified on anyone else his age. For all intents and purposes, he appeared bored and sleepy, but every now and then, PJ would catch him exchanging knowing glances with Ada Teyla, who sat with the Colonel to her left. She herself was positioned to the left of PJ’s dad, opposite Dr. Beckett, who sat to his right.

Across from Ada Teyla's side, on the other half of the U-shaped table, sat General Carter.

“Rodney?” Sam called out after no one dared to break the silence that came after the last remark.

When PJ turned to her dad again, she found him nodding to himself. It was a familiar gesture, one that, despite her absolute lack of idea about what they were talking about, somehow made her feel like everything was going to be all right.

“It’s all right, Sam.” The words came out softly. “Send word to Mitchell. Tell him one month’s enough.”

Silence followed the decree, and PJ sucked in a breath as she realized what the topic was about. She’d known the feed was live and that the meeting was most likely happening a short distance from where she was the moment her dad started talking, but until then, it hadn’t seemed real. Like it was just another peculiar dream. Now that she knew it wasn't, only her need to hear more had stopped her from trying to get out, from attempting to understand just what had led her here in the first place.

Swallowing around the shame that lodged itself against her throat, PJ focused back on the meeting and watched Sam’s shoulders sag in relief. Uncle Daniel, who was sitting between her and someone whose face PJ could not make out, kept his back straight.

“I will,” Sam said. “I’ll coordinate with Communications for the upcoming databurst.”

Before she could look down and likely make a note on her data pad, however, PJ’s dad raised a hand to stop her.

“One month,” he told Sam. “But I’ll need the first three to prepare. Your team can leave with the Hammond next week.”

Even though PJ’d kept her eyes on Sam, she still caught the way Uncle Daniel’s shoulders tensed. The video’s resolution wasn’t the best, but she felt as though she could sense everything that was happening inside the conference room.

Including the moment the man beside Uncle Daniel shifted in his seat.

“Three weeks?” the man said, more than half of his face still obscured from PJ’s view. “Director, that’s going to leave Atlantis with only one week to travel.”

Her dad’s nod was slow, almost mocking. “That would be correct, Secretary Cruz. I’m pleased to know you can perform elementary arithmetic, after all.”

The choking sound PJ made echoed loud in the small space she was in. Apparently, the other man was the latest in the string of representatives Earth’s council kept on sending Rodney McKay’s way. Secretary Cruz had arrived just after her dad left for Cabezum, and by the looks of it, he’d failed to make a good impression.

“But Director McKay,” Cruz started, drawing everyone but Sam’s and Dr. Beckett’s eyes to him. Sam was frowning at her data pad, and Dr. Beckett kept his gaze straight ahead. “I was told that you need at least two weeks to reach Earth.”

“You do.”

This time, it was Uncle Daniel who’d spoken up. From the surprise on the faces of everyone in the room, PJ realized it must’ve been the first time he’d contributed to the meeting.

Secretary Cruz took the remark as a vote of confidence, and he continued with more self-assurance than when he’d started.

“Then we all proceed as planned. In case General Carter failed to make it clear, Director, you are to return the city of Atlantis to its rightful home as soon as possible. We are on a tight schedule, after all, and both the president and the IOA wouldn’t appreciate any delays simply because you had to pack more bags than usual.”

PJ felt her hackles rise, but the amicable expression on her dad’s face never wavered.

“Oh trust me, Mr. Secretary. I took General Carter’s report very seriously.” At the mention of her name, Sam looked up from the hand she had gripped on one of Uncle Daniel’s arms. “I’m perfectly aware of how your institution operates, and I’ve already expressed my intention to abide by its…instructions.”

It was only because PJ was watching very closely that she caught the briefest of moments when her dad’s eyes flickered to Uncle Daniel before settling back to Secretary Cruz.

“You’ve given me one month, and I will use that time at my discretion. If _you_ have read the reports you were supposed to before gracing our city with your presence, you’d know that Atlantis is home to many people, most of whom I’m certain you won’t be permitting to travel with us. I will need those three weeks to ensure that they understand the situation.” He shot the other man a smile that, under the light of the conference room, made him look like he was baring his teeth. “As for the matter of travel time, I’m sure Dr. Jackson means well, but he is mistaken. One week is more than enough to reach Earth. You have nothing to worry about.”

After that, the rest of the meeting went on without mentioning anything else about the topic. Secretary Cruz, who had nothing else to contribute outside the topic of the upcoming trip, remained quiet. Everyone else seemed more subdued, actually. Apart from Ada Teyla, who took charge of discussing standard Council agenda PJ often heard from Torren, and Colonel Lorne, who went through inventory and duty rosters, the rest of the people in the meeting seemed lost in their own heads. Dr. Beckett and Dr, Z, in particular, looked particularly detached.

When her dad finally declared the meeting adjourned and allowed everyone else to file out, PJ realized she'd been inside the compartment for over an hour. Before she could start finding her way out, however, she noticed that the feed was still broadcasting, and the conference room was now empty save for two men.

Her dad and Uncle Daniel remained in their seats, both stiff yet clearly attuned to the other's presence.

“You can stop being obnoxious now, you know,” Uncle Daniel said, looking up from his hands. In his seat, PJ's dad continued to mess with his data pad. She had a feeling he was not doing anything important at all. “If you're mad at me, don't take it out on them. Every single one of the people who just left this room would rather die than disappoint you. You have nothing to prove to them.”

That got Rodney McKay’s attention, and he looked up from whatever it was he was fiddling with to shoot Uncle Daniel a look that was so incredulous PJ had to laugh.

“Okay,” Uncle Daniel backpedaled, one of his eyes flinching behind his glasses “Maybe not Cruz.” He paused, then blinked. “And I guess Sam wouldn’t really _die_ , but still. You get my point.”

With a disbelieving huff, PJ’s dad gave up all pretense that he was busy and set his data pad down. “Is this your funny way of apologizing?”

Uncle Daniel frowned. “I already said I was sorry for startling her.”

“But not for what you did.”

Another pause. “No.”

“Which brings us back to square one.”

“Say what you have to say, Rodney.” Uncle Daniel sighed, taking off his glasses with careful, measured movements. “Contrary to what you insist on believing, I did not orchestrate this whole thing. If you don't want to listen to my explanation, then at least settle for something you _can_ discuss with me. Otherwise, just choose a damned spacegate to punt me through and be done with it."

For a long moment, the two just stared at each other. PJ had always believed that her dad and Uncle Daniel were two of the greatest and most important men in the galaxy. She was accustomed to the way their views often clashed, but she’d always seen the respect underneath every squabble.

Watching the two of them now, the distance between them a gulf that seemed impossible to cross, she began to wonder what she’d been missing all this time.

“I’ll let this one pass,” her dad said, suddenly sounding tired. “But I swear to every god in your vocabulary, the next time you play games with me and my daughter, I’ll personally make sure it'll be an eight-chevron one.”

A beat passed before Uncle Daniel's lips quirked in a semblance of a smile. His eyes spoke of gratitude, too, and it took PJ a moment to comprehend that she'd just witnessed what had to be the most bizarre way to bestow forgiveness.

Still, a small part of her felt as though the conversation wasn't over. She watched as the two men stood up and made their way out of the room, postures still stiff but distance to each other somehow shorter.

After that, the screen went dark, and PJ was left alone with only her thoughts.

**Author's Note:**

> Feel free to talk to me on [Tumblr](https://atlantis-scribe.tumblr.com/) :)


End file.
